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THE WING OF AZRAEL 


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♦ 


Aut" 

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BY 

y 

MONA CAIRD 

>» 

.» HOM Nature Leadeth,’’ “One That Wins,” Etc, 



“Amidst the sunshine of a cloudless day 
A shadow falls— the Wing of Azrael ; 

Though utterly the shadow pass away. 

The doom must come that therewith earthward fell. ” 

William Sharp, 



NEW YORK 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANV 

142 AND 144 Worth Street 




9 








\ 


V 




V 






V 

A 







O-OPTRiauT, 1889, 

BY 

JOHN W. LOVELL. 




{ 




TO 

J6U3abetb S, Sharp 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED, WITH GRATEFUL 


AND ADMIRING AFFECTION 




PREFACE. 


Much has been said for and against the writing of “novels with a 
purpose.” , 

As well might one argue for and against the finding of the Phi- 
losopher’s Stone. 

The work of fiction whose motive is not the faithful description of 
an impression from without, but the illustration of a thesis — though 
that thesis be the corner-stone of Truth itself— has adopted the form 
of the novel for the purposes of an essay, and has no real right to the 
name. So long as there is true consistency in the actions and thoughts 
of the characters, so long as they act and think because circumstances 
and innate impulse leave them no alternative, they cannot be fitted into 
exact correspondence with any view, or made into the advocate of 
any cause. If the author preserves his literary fidelity, rebellion 
among the actors inevitably springs up. Far from being puppets, as 
they are so often erroneously called, they are creatures with a will 
and a stubborn personality, who often drive the stage-manager to the 
brink of despair; and as for being ready to “point a moral and adorn 
a tale ” at his bidding, they would sooner throw up their parts and 
leave him alone on the deserted stage, to lament his own obstinacy 
and their insubordination ! 

Human affairs are too complex, motives too many and too subtle, 
to allow a small group of persons to become the exponents of a general 
principle, however true. An ^rgument founded upon this narrow 
basis would be without value though it were urged with the elo- 
quence of a Demosthenes. 

Certain selected aspects of a truth may be — indeed must be — pre- 
sented to the reader with insistence, for the impressions made upon a 
mind by the facts of life depend upon the nature of that mind, which 
urges emotionally upon the neutral vision one fact rather than an- 
other, and thus ends in producing a more or less selective composition 
and not a photograph. 

But this process— entirely purposeless — takes place in the mind of 

ix. 


X 


PUEFACE, 


every one though he be as innocent as a babe of any tendency to weak 
romances, the most strictly matter-of-fact person being indeed the arch 
offender, as regards deviation from the centre of general truth. 

His own faculties and prejudice, in this case, play the artist, select- 
ing images of reality which group themselves after a certain inevitable 
fashion; and these represent for him what he is pleased to call “ real 
life,” with its “ morals ” and its “ lessons,” precisely corresponding, 
not to existence itself, but to the judgment and the temper of the un- 
conscious dramatist. 

“ The eye only sees that which brings with it the power of seeing,” 
whether “ the eye” belong to one who describes his impression, or to 
him who all«»ws it to be written secretly on his heart. 

For in the heart of every man lies a recorded drama, sternly with- 
out purpose, yet more impressive and inevitable in its teachings than 
the most purposeful novel ever written. 

To transcribe this invisible work so that the impress becomes re- 
vealed is to write a novel, good, bad, or indifCerent, as the case may 
be, but a novel par excellence and not an essay. 

The writer of fiction has to present, as best he may, a real impression 
made upon him, including the effect of such impulse to the imagina- 
tion as it may have given, and of all the art — if art there be — or ex- 
ercise of fancy by which the record is faithfully conveyed to the 
minds of others. 

To reveal the image with so much skill that the vividness of the- 
representatiou is hardly less than that of the original, is to write a novel 
well, though even yet the image itself may not be of sufiicieut in- 
terest to make its revelation of extreme value. 

These are— according to my view — the conditions of the novel; 
first, of its claim to the title at all; secondly, of its merits, £,ud 
thirdly, of its greatness, which implies the fulfilment of the other two 
requirements, while demanding also that the impression recorded shall 
be fine enough and striking enough to appeal to those sympathies in 
human nature which are most nol^e and most generous, as well as 
to that mysterious sense of proportion and beauty which holds rela- 
tion to the suppressed and ill-treated but ever-present poetic instincts 
of mankind. 

I have described these unattained ideals of the art of fiction, in or- 
der to show as convincingly as possible that, however much this book 
may be thought to deal with the question which has been recently so 
much discussed, there is no intention on the writer’s part to make it 
serve a polemical purpose, or to advocate a cause. 

Its object is not to convert or to convince, but to repi'esent. How- 
ever much it fails, that is its aim. 


PREFACE. 


XI 


If anywhere temptation is yielded to and the action is dragged out 
of its course in order to serve an opinion of my own; if anywhere, for 
for that object, a character is made to think or to speak inconsistently 
with himself and his surroundings, therein must be recognized my 
want of skill, not my deliberate intention; the failure of my design, 
not its fulfilment. 


Hampstead, March 2, 1889. 


Mona Caird. 



THE WING OF AZRAEL, 


CHAPTER I. 


MIST. 

The great stable-yard clock was slowly striking the hour — 
midnight. OVer the park hung a white and stealthy mist, 
touched by white and stealthy moonlight. Great elm-trees 
loomed through it heavy and still : they seemed to be waiting 
for something that never came. 

The mist was thick, but one could see through it a large 
white house with innumerable majestic windows, very broad 
and very high. Even in this dim light it was evident that 
everything was falling into decay. Grass grew in the shrub- 
beries, and weeds in the gravel-paths; it was a melancholy, 
forsaken old place, closed in, and silent as the grave. The 
house stood hushed in the moonligh b, with blinds drawn, win- 
dows closed, — all but one blind and one window on the first 
floor, on that side of the house which faced the garden, and 
beyond it a steep avenue of elm-trees. 

At that open window a small figure was kneeling: a dark- 
haired little girl, who leant her elbows on the sill and gazed 
up the mystic avenue. The line of trees led the eye to the 
top of the hill, and there ending, created an unsatisfied long- 
ing to see over the other side. The child peered forth eagerly 
into the still, passionless mystery of the night. Throngs of 
bewildering thoughts were stiri-ing the little soul to its depths : 
— what was it, and whence this strange world that does not 
come to an end at the top of the avenue, at the boundary of 
the park ? — this world that goes on and on, field after field, 
till it comes to the sea, and then goes on and on again, wave 

after wave, till it comes once more to the land, and then ? 

then the realms of the air, and the great cloud-regions, and 
beyond these — Nothing, a great all-embracing Nothing that 
will not stop, that goes on and on, and still on, till the brain 
reels at the thought of it — but it does not stop then; it never 
stops, or would stop, or could stop, even when God sounded 


2 


THE WINE OF AZRAEL. 


the last trumpet aud the worlds shrivelled up in the flames 
on the Judgment Day— how, even then, could it stop? 

Could God Himself order that there should not be that great 
thought- confounding Emptiness ? The child shuddered at 
the impious doubt, but her perplexed little mind staggered 
under the weight of the questions that came tumbling over 
one another in their haste. 

The mystery of her own existence that was a terrible per- 
plexity to the little metaphysician. Was this being, this self 
a reality in the strange, cold region of Nothingness ? Was 
anything real and actual, or was it all a mistake, a shadow, a 
’tnist which would presently melt again into the void ? 

Yet if there were no reality, whence these thoughts ? The 
child touched herself tentatively. Yes, she was, she must be 
real; a separate being called Viola Sedley, — with thoughts of 
her owm, entirely her own, whom nobody in all this big world 
quite knew. Viola Sedley ; — she repeated the name over and 
over to herself, as if to gain some clearer conception of her 
position in relation to the universe, but the arbitrary name 
only deepened the sense of mystery. Am J, this thought and 
feeling, Viola Sedley ? Will the thought that I shall think, 
and the feeling that I shall feel to-morrow, be Viola Sedley 
too ? It seemed awful to the child to be walking in the midst 
of “ eternal verities” without knowing them ; to be plunged 
in Infinite Nothingness and not understand if it would some 
day swallow us up, or if we should be rescued by the living 
Thought that seemed to have so true an existence. How had 
Thought prevailed against that Nothingness, risen out of its 
heart, if it were not some i-eal thing stronger than all ? 

Viola could not have expressed these questions in words; 
but her ideas, preceding language (though so intimately re- 
lated to it), stretched out into regions where she could find no 
answer, and where no answer was to be found. 

Conceptions of God, Nature, Destiny, were running riot in 
the child’s consciousness, her strict religious training raising 
questions without giving solutions, and torturing her with a 
sense of inconsistency demanding double-faced belief. The 
doctrine of eternal punishment had already begun to haunt 
this lonely child with its terrors. From long association, the 
gloom of the gi’eat park and the giant trees seemed to her to 
speak wamingly of what was to come. The place was full 
of voices and of symbols. The elm avenue that led to the 
outer world beyond the park, the world where there was sun- 
shine and a wide horizon, strong winds and liberty. Here at 
home a belt of dark trees shut out the far-away skies, here 
one seldom felt the open winds ; it was stagnant and event- 
less. To go up that avenue and away into the world had been 
one of Viola’s most passionate longings from her earliest 
childhood. From the summit one could catch a glimpse of 
the sea, the wonderful sea that spoke and sang all the year 
Icng, in winter and summer, through the warm days and 


A YOUNG MAN CALLED M0MU8. 


3 


through all the long dark nights— eternally speaking and 
prophesying and lamenting. Viola thought that if only she 
could reach the sea she would not be lonely any more. She 
would throw herself down beside it, and it would know every- 
thing: all the fear and the longing, the love and pity that was 
in her; and then the pain would go, and the waters would 
creep up to her softly and tell her not to grieve, and she 

would fling herself into the beautiful waves, and then 

Suddenly the child stretched out her arms and sank against 
the window passionately sobbing. 

Very white and very still was the mist to-night. Even in 
high midsummer it might often be seen hanging about that 
damp old park, and this was early in the spring, before the 
bursting of the leaf. 

One might fancy that the mist lay as a curse upon the place, 
shrouding all things, chilling all things, bringing to all things 
rottenness and decay. 

Was there some influence in the atmosphere of that old 
house that was like the still, penetrating mist without? — 
something that worked its stealthy way into the heart, shroud- 
ing all things, chilhng all things, bringing to all things rot- 
tenness and decay? 


* CHAPTER II. 


A YOUNG MAN CALLED MOMUS. 

Viola Sedley-, the youngest and the only girl among a 
family of boys, was a pale, dark-haired little creature, with 
large grey eyes and delicately cut features. People said that 
she exactly resembled her ihother, but the resemblance was 
only superficial. Mrs. Sedley’s hair was smooth and shining, 
Avhile Viola’s fell about her massively, for it w^as heavy and 
thick. Mrs. Sedley’s eyes were brown and quiet; Viola’s had 
the grey, shifting tint that marks the nervous temperament, 
and the yearning look of a sensitive, bewildered soul. Her 
father saw only the likeness between mother and daughter, 
and he called the child, in impatient displeasure, “a little 
Puritan.” He would have preferred to see her a robust, 
coarse-fibred creature of his own kind; a girl who would 
have no reserve or sensitiveness or subtleties of feeling. Mrs. 
Sedley, with her still, dutiful ways and religious principles, 
had irritated him from the first day of her meek reign at the 
Manor-House, and he was highly displeased to find that Viola 
promised to follow in her mother’s footsteps. 

Mr. Sedley, by nature, was blustering and self-indulgent, 
but on the whole well-meaning, with the fatal habit of so 


4 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


many people who mean well, of getting into debt. His wife’s 
tendencies, on the other hand, were ascetic. Her conscience 
never let her rest until she had made things as unpleasant for 
herself as circumstances would permit, and by long practice 
in these arts she had now achieved a ghastly power of self- 
suppression. Her reward had been the approval of her 
own conscience and the half-contemptuous approbation of 
her lord. He regarded her, in the most literal and simple- 
minded manner, as his possession, and Mrs. Sedley piously 
encouraged him in an idea which she thought was amply con- 
firmed by the Scriptures. 

Happy the religion and happy the society that can secure 
beings of Marian Sedley’s type for its worshippers, for the 
faith of such people remains as steady under “conspiracies 
of tempest from without, and tempest from within,” as it 
stands beaming with uplifted eyes on days of halcyon calm. 
Rooted beyond the farthest wandeiings of the Reason, it lies 
securely out of i-each of any attack that may be directed 
against it through that ungracious faculty. ' 

Mrs. Sedley, following the dictates of her creed, had spent 
her life in the performance of v-hat she called her wifely duty, 
and this unfailing submissiveness, this meek and saint like 
endurance, had now succeeded in turning a man originally 
good-hearted into a creature so selfish, so thick-headed, and 
often so brutal, that even his all-enduring wife used to won- 
der, at times, if Heaven would give her grace to bear her 
heavy cross patiently to the end ! 

Nature, regardless, as usual, of motives, was taking her 
stern revenge upon the woman who had spent her whole vir- 
tuous life in drawing out her husband’s evil nature, and in 
stunting what little good there was in him by her perpetual 
encouragement of his caprices and her perpetual self-efface- 
ment. Morbidly apt at self-reproach on all other points, she 
never even suspected that the wreck of this man’s life was 
partly her own doing. She accepted the consequences of her 
acts not as their natural punishment, but as another Heaven- 
sent trial to be borne without murmuring. 

Among her numerous “Heaven-sent trials” was the behav- 
iour of her three eldest sons, the first of whom had been 
obliged to leave the country after a detected attempt to cheat 
at cards. The other two were in the army, living royally 
beyond their means, and appearing to derive no benefit what- 
ever from the heartrending prayers offered up daily, almost 
hourly, by their anxious mother for their w^elfare, temporal 
and spiritual. There had been many painful scenes at the 
Manor-House of late between Mr. Sedley and his sons; the 
father refusing to pay their ever-recurring debts, while the 
mother prayerfully interceded on their behalf. The times 
were very bad just now; rents were falling, farms being given 
up; if things went on like this mueh longer, Mr. Sedley de- 
clared, they would all be in the workhouse! His own debts 


A TOUNO MAN CALLED M0MU8. 


5 


were steadily accuiniilating, but of this he said nothing to his 
wife, Viola was not of marriageable age, and therefore un- 
able as yet to retrieve the family fortunes. Retrenchments 
became necessary, but the burden of these Mrs. Sedley took 
first upon her own shoulders, and then laid small hardships 
on her daughter, Mr. Sedley being shielded till he could be 
shielded no longer. 

Miss G-ripper, a severe maiden, who lived and did needle- 
work in the village, used to remark upon the shabbiness of 
Mrs. Sedley’s garments when she appeared, with Viola and 
her youngest son Geoffrey, in church every Sunday morning. 
Miss Gripper added that when Providence placed people in a 
certain position, it expected certain things of them ; and, in 
hsr humble ojiinion, it showed a thankless, not to say an 
irreverent spirit to appear in the Lord’s house Sunday after 
Sunday in a turned black silk, — and not such very good 
quality, to begin with ! 

Miss Gripper’s feelings were threatened, as time went on, 
with greater and greater outrage, for the young men were 
going from bad to worse; yet Mrs. Sedley loved and hoped 
on. It was still her sons who made the most irresistible ap- 
peal to her motherly affections: the girl, beloved as she v/as, 
must always be prepared to make sacrifices for her brothers. 
In order that they should have a college education and every 
social advantage, Viola had to go almost without education 
at all ; to afford them means to amuse themselves stylishly, 
their sister must be stinted of every opportunity and every 
pleasure. The child of course accepted this without question: 
her whole training dictated subordination of self to the wel- 
fare of her fellow-creatures, above all to that of her father 
and her brothers. She had absorbed this congenial doctrine 
readily, for she was her mother’s ardent worshipper, and 
promised to be a credit to that exemplary lady. She seemed 
indeed less bright and happy than a child ought to be, but 
then Mrs. Sedley laid more stress on rehgious and moi al qual- 
ities than on mere happiness. Possibly Viola’s sex made 
happiness seem unessential ; for the mother would certainly 
have been much concerned had she seen one of her boys 
wandering about with that wistful look in his eyes, that 
strange accustomed sadness which she scarcely noticed in her 
little girl. Yet Mrs. Sedley anticipated the troubles of her 
daughter’s future with unspeakable dread. What had a 
woman to look for— a dutiful woman such as Viola must bo — 
but sorrow and pain, increasing as her life’s shadow length- 
ened on the dial? If not quite so heart-breaking as her 
mother’s life had been, Viola’s could not escape the doom 
that lurks in the air of this world for all women of her type. 
Indeed, for all kinds and conditions what sorrow and lamen- 
tation ! For each type its peculiar miseries, but the cup for 
all ! 

There were times when Mrs. Sedley, forgetting for a 


6 


THE WING OF AZBAEL, 


moment the steadiness of her faith, felt that it might be better 
if the child were to pass away to another world before she 
had tasted the sorrows of this one. But already the childish 
heart had swelled with sorrowful emotion; mready a dim 
threatening consciousness of the awful solitude of a human 
soul drowned in the deeps of life and eternity had raised a 
panic within her. She was cursed with that melancholy 
metaphysical consciousness of the Infinite and the Unknown 
with which the British mind is usually so entirely untroubled. 
Viola, however, was not a persistently gloomy child. When 
her brother Geoffrey (a boy a couple of years her semor) 
came home for the holidays, she plunged heart and soul into 
his occupations, and was as happy as only children (and pos- 
sibly angels) know how to be. Geoffrey was a long-legged, 
good-hearted schoolboy, with rosy cheeks, brown eyes, and a 
mop-like head of fair hair. He was at Eton, acquiring a 
mystic thing called “tone,” which evinced itself when he 
came home in lively practical jokes of a most harassing 
character, played upon everybody within reach, without re- 
spect for age, sex, or dignity; chiefly, however, upon the 
maids and gardeners, who might at such times have answered 
Mr. Mallock’s question, whether life is worth living, with a 
unanimous and gloomy negative. 

The head gardener, Thomas, whose mowing-machine had 
been put out of order, whose tools had been lost beyond re- 
call, whose watering-pots leaked consistently, was heard to 
threaten to speak to Mr. Sedley if this sort of thing went on 
much longer. The second gardener, “Old Willum,” as his 
chief called him, was made of softer stuff, showing lenience 
towards the little escapades of youth, even when Geoffrey 
took occasion to substitute charlock for cabbage-seed as soon 
as the old man’s back was turned, causing the long-suffering 
one to sow a fine crop of that pestiferous weed in the kitchen- 
garden. “Old Willum,” with his rheumatism, his patient 
industry, his tender old heart, was incapable of resentment. 

Viola had a passionate love and pity for this old man ; her 
eyes used to soften at the sound o' his voice, at the sight of 
hk bent figure trundling a wheelbarrow, or digging up the 
everlasting weeds in the gi’avel terrace before the house. 
“ Old Willum,” her mother, and Geoffrey were the beings on 
whom she expended the treasures of her affection; on these, 
and on Bill Dawkins, a handsome undipped poodle named in 
affectionate memory of a departed under-gardener, who had 
been a great favourite with the children. Bill Dawkins was 
indeed an enchanting animal, ridiculously intelligent for such 
a world as this; a creature full of life and enterprise, true to 
the core, and devotedly attached to his little mistress. 

He and Geoffrey used to treat her with a certain chivalrous 
condescension as “a weaker vessel.” Bill Dawkins, in his 
moments of wildest excitement, would turn and run back en- 
couragingly to see that Viola was following. 


A Youjsra j[rA]sr called momus. 


7 


What adventures those thx’ee used to have together in the 
woods and fields, in the beautiful rambling old gardens of the 
Manor House ! And what intoxication there was in this new- 
found libert}^ for the closely-watched, closely-guarded child ! 

The mere sight of the sunshine pouring down upon the open 
midsummer fields, the mere thrill of a bird’s note, as the 
three companions set off together upon some wild ramble, 
would stir the little heart almost to bursting. 

Only now and then in poetry would she find relief for this 
pent-up painful rapture, but books of poetry were not very 
plentiful at the Manor-House; besides, Mrs. Sedley did not 
think any poet, except Cowper, safe reading for her daugh- 
ter. 

So there was nothing for it as regards expression but to run 
riot with Bill Dawkins over the fields, and to join in his wild, 
consciously fruitless chases after starlings, skylarks, or some 
old rook, who flapped his glossy wings in dignified retreat 
from the presumptuous assailant. 

The child’s whole heart went out in love towards the living 
creatures around her; and the sight of suffering among the 
least of these would bring hot tears of anguish to her eyes. 
Things that she saw in the fields— the preying of creature 
upon creature, the torture suffered and inflicted in the every 
day game of life— caused her many a bitter pang, and induced 
her to ask questions when she went home which Mrs. Sedley 
found very difficult to answer. She generally told Viola that 
all things were wisely ordered, and that we must not permit 
a questioning spirit to grow up in us, as that would lead to 
doubt and sin. 

So Viola was silent; but when next she saw the piteous 
terror of a mouse, as it awaits, horror-stricken, the spring of 
its captor; when next she heard the almost human scream of 
the hare when its doom overtakes it, she wondered as pain- 
fully as ever at the strange conflict and struggle of Nature, 
though she closed her lips and let the problem eat deeper and 
deeper into her bewildered soul. 

A lake on the park boundary was the favourite haunt of 
this happy trio. Here in spring they would watch the frog- 
spawn develoning into masses of wriggling tadpoles, finding 
never-ending interest in watching these Protean reptiles, who 
shed their frivolous tails and appeared suddenly as sedate and 
decorous young reptiles, wanting only size to give them that 
expression of unfathomable profundity which in the full- 

f rovvn frog seems to hint at wisdom greater than all the wis- 
om of the Egyptians. 

Viola used to keep some tadpoles in a water-butt behind one 
of the sheds in the garden, giving them romantic names, and 
secretly hoping that in course of time they would come to an- 
swer to them. She consulted Thomas on the subject, but he 
shook his head with a knowing wink, and said he didn’t think 


8 


THE Wim OF AZBAEH 


tadpoles took, as one might say, much notice, — not tadpoles 
in a ordinary way, he didn’t think. 

Viola urged that Marmion, the biggest of the tadpoles, used 
to swim to meet her when she appeared, but she observed that 
he did the same at the approach of Thomas, who had abso- 
lutely no sympathy with tadpole nature. To “Willum,” 
who showed fondness for the creatures (as was only natural), 
they paid no special regard : they wagged their tails at every- 
body, and showed a great lack of discriminating power in their 
ceaseless exultation. 

On the whole, one could enter into closer and more personal 
relations with their elder brothers down at the lake, only that 
here their vast numbers made strictly selective friendship a 
matter of difficulty. On one occasion, when the children were 
deeply engrossed in trying to persuade a green and juicy 
young frog to eat Albert biscuits, they looked up and beheld 
a young man standing beside them laughing, and a little be- 
hind him a tall lady, also laughing. 

The children started up in shy alarm. 

“ So this is the way you two wild young people amuse 
yourself,” said the lady, who was no stranger, but the chil- 
dren’s aunt Augusta, one of Mr. Sedley’s sisters, who had 
married and settled at Upton, a village about twelve miles 
from the Manor-House. 

She was an important, self possessed-looking woman, tall 
and thin, with dark eyes, hair, and complexion, a long face, 
rather thin lips, and a neat compact brow. 

Her face expressed her character pretty accurately. 

Harry Lancaster, her present companion, used to say of her, 
that she had enough will-power to drive a steam-engine, an 
unassailable self-confidence, and opinions of cast-iron. 

She was an ambitious woman, whose ambitions had been 
gratified by her marriage with Lord Clevedon, a courtly per- 
son of the bid school, with whom she had really fallen in love 
after a fashion, perhaps because he satisfied her innate desire 
for all that is dignified and grandiose. 

Harry Lancaster was a slim, boyish-looking, brown-haired 
fellow, with a frank, humorous face, whose charm lay chiefly 
in its expression. His dark, bluish-grey eyes were brimming 
over with amusement and sjunpathy, as he stood with folded 
arms looking down upon the two shame-faced children. 

“ It seems ages since I saw you, my dears,” said Aunt 
Augusta, in her clear, self-confident accents. ‘ ‘ Are you never 
coming to see me and your cousins again ? Percy was asking 
after you only this morning, and little Augusta too. I think 
I must carry you off with me to-day after lunch, no matter 
what your mother says. My good sister-in-law thinks me too 
frivolous a person to trust her chicks to,” she added to Harry, 
with a laugh. 

“And so you are,” said Harry. “I have had serious 


A YOUNG MAN GALLED M0MU8. 


9 


thoughts of leaving vour hospitable roof because I find your 
hiiiuence morally deleterious.” 

“Impertinent boy! And before these children too ! My 
dears, you must always put cotton-wool in your ears when 
this wicked cousin of mine speaks. He is a very dreadful 
young man, I must tell you— the most dreadful thing under 
the sun: a Radical 1” 

“ What is a Radical ?” asked Geoffrey, looking up into the 
face of the “ dreadful thing,” which smiled amiably. 

“ A creature in the form of a human being, biit with the 
soul of a demon, ’’answered Lady Clevedon. ‘‘I don’t know 
if he feeds . upon little children, but he certainly devours 
widows’ houses.” 

The children stared. 

“After dark,” pursued her Ladyship, “ he becomes phos- 
phorescent, and emits from his mouth and nostrils green 
fire.” 

Geoffrey laughed at this in a sceptical manner. 

“ It’s all very well to laugh,” said his aunt, “but you don’t 
know what a dangerous young man it is 1 Let us stroll back 
together to the house, and I will try to get your mother’s per- 
mission to take you home with me!” 

A visit to Clevedon was like a visit to a fairy palace, and 
the children followed their aunt and her talkative companion 
across the park, with hearts beating high for pleasure. 

Mrs. Sedley was inclined, as usual, to find some reason 
against their going, but her husband interposed. Through 
his sister he hoped some day to find a wealthy husband for 
his daughter. 

“Take them, my dear, take them,” he said graciously. 

The neighbouring estate to that of Lord Clevedon had just 
been inherited by a distant relation of the late owner, who 
was without sons or nephews, and this new Sir Philip Den- 
draith had a young son who would be just the right age for 
Viola when they both grew up, and who would also be one of 
the most eligible young men in the county. 

“It will do the children a world of good to have a little out- 
ing,” said Mr. Sedley cheerfully. 

He was a big thick-set man, with a ruddy face, reddish hair, 
and rather bleared light blue eyes. There was a certain jaunti- 
ness about his manner, and he was a notorious flirt ; though, 
as his sister very frankly remarked, ‘ ‘ no clever woman could 
ever be got to flirt with him; he was not amusing enough.” 
In point of fact, to a woman of sensitive type his gallantry 
seemed little short of insulting. 

“Have you seen anything of your new neighbours ?” Mr. 
Sedley inquired, as the little party sat down to lunch in the 
big, dull, old fashioned dining-room of the Manor-House. 

“^ir Philip Dendraith and his family ? No ; at least I have 
seen Sir Philip and his son at a meet of the Upton hounds, 
but I have not yet called on his wife. He is an appalling 


10 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


creature; loud, pushing, altogether obnoxious. It is a sad 
pity that the main branch of the family died out; this man is 
not fit for the position.” 

“ And the son ?” inquired Mr. Sedley. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! he is of quite a different stamp ; a true Dendraith ; hand- 
some, polished, keen-witted. He reminds me of that portrait 
of Andrew Dendraith at the old castle on the cliff, the man in 
the last century who was said to have killed his wife because 
he discovered she was in love with another man.” 

“Handsome, then ?” said Mr. Sedley. 

‘ ‘ W onderf ully handsome ” Lady Clevedon answered. ‘ ‘ Of 
course his parents are crazily fond of him.” 

“ Ah ! I suppose you will call at once at Upton Court.” 

Lady Clevedon shrugged her shoulders. 

“My instinct is to put off the evil day.” 

“Bad habit, putting off !” said Mr. Sedley, sagely, at which 
his sister gave a sardonic chuckle. Perhaps she was thinking 
of Mr. Sedley’s debts I 

After luncheon the two children were taken off to the 
“Palace of Delight.” Harry Lancaster entertained them 
during the twelve miles’ drive with a running stream of fan- 
tastic talk. Lady Clevedon sat back in the carriage and 
quietly laughed at him, while Harry, on his side, seemed to 
be amusing himself in a sort of secret suh-fashion with the 
rest of the company, and with the entire situation. 

He was one of those happy people to whom life is always 
more or less amusing, and this pleasant sensation became 
particularly keen when he was visiting his “ baronial cousin,” 
as he called her. 

Most people were frightened of Lady Clevedon, who was 
noted for her powers of satire, but Harry bared his head to 
the storm, and its lightnings played about him harmlessly. 
She liked his audacity, even when he attacked her most cher- 
ished convictions. 

With all his boldness and freedom, he was what she was 
pleased to call a “gentleman,” a title which she bestowed or 
withheld with a discrimination sometimes a little arbitrary. 

“I wish I knew what you mean by ‘gentleman,’ ” Harry 
said, after some unoffending person had been consigned to 
the region of outer darkness, where there are no gentlemen, 
but only weeping and wailing and gashing of teeth. “I 
think you are inclined (perhaps we all are) to make the word 
stand for a certain sublime something which we mix up in a 
glow of excitement with qualities purely social.” 

“My dear boy, we are not all etymological dictionaries; we 
use words in their ordinary accepted sense, and leave defini- 
tions to — ‘ the Unemployed.’ ” 

“But,” persisted Harry, “I want to know what is meant 
in common parlance by a ‘ gentleman.’ ” * 

“ Ask me to express one of the ‘ ultimate elements ’ (which 


A YOUNG MAN CALLED M0MU8. 


11 


you are always prosily talking about) in terms of something 
else,” returned her Ladyship. 

“Ah! that’s an idea!” Harry exclaimed joyously. “A 
gentleman is a social element; he can’t be reduced to any 
lower terms; he. is among the original bricks of which the 
universe is built; he is fundamental, indestructible, incon- 
ceivable, and ” 

“Harry, is nothing sacred to you? Does this horrible 
Radicalism sweep away all the traditions that you learnt at 
your mother’s knee ?” 

“ Far from it,” said Harry. “ Although I have no respect 
for class, and no reverence for rank, I still realise that the 
house of Lancaster stands apart from and above all prin- 
cipalities and powers, and that it is more glorious in its fall 
than ever it was in the palmiest days of its prosperity.” 

“You don’t deserve to belong to it!” exclaimed Lady 
Clevedon. “This virus of democracy has poisoned your 
whole system.” 

“Democracy — what is democracy?” questioned Harry, 
pensively. 

“The misgovernment of fools by madmen!” she returned. 

He smiled. “ You murder with a definition !” 

“I am sick of the nonsense that people talk now-a-days, 
calling themselves ‘ advanced, ’” Lady Clevedon pursued ; — 
“advanced in folly, let me tell them! Every shallow idiot 
with a clapper in his head thinks himself entitled to get up 
and make a jangle like any chapel-bell that whitens one’s 
hair on Sunday mornings !” 

“Use Mrs. Alien’s hair-restorer,” suggested Harry frivol- 
ously. 

Lady Clevedon’s face changed. 

“ Harry,” she cried impressively, “ there was a young man 
in ancient mythology of very good position, but he succeeded 
in rendering himself so obnoxious to the gods by his inveter- 
ate habit of making fun of them, that he at last got turned 
out of heaven. That young man’s name was Momus.” 

“Unhappy Momus!” said Harry. “Do you chance to 
know any of the fatal jokes by which he lost his place among 
the Olympians ?” 

Lady Clevedon laughed. 

“Much use it is to point a moral for your benefit, young 
man.” 

“Perhaps he chaffed' Jupiter about his love-affairs, by 
Jove !” 

“I dare .-ay; he was a vulgar god. But be good enough to 
suit your conversation to these children.” 

“i am sure they are interested in Momus,” said Harry. 
“The question you raise is one of extreme significance,— is it 
not so, Viola ? ' I am sure you feel with me that the first in- 
f tance of vulgarity on record is a subject of reflection for a 
philosopher.” 


12 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


“Harry, Harry!” 

“ One of the profoundest mysteries of the universe, my 
dear cousin ; the bane of philosophy, the despair of religion, 
the insuperable obstacle to the doctrine of the soul’s immor- 
tality, and the” 

“Harry, if you talk any more nonsense I shall stop the car- 
riage and leave you ignominiously on the road.” 

“Well, well; — perhaps the day will yet come vrhen I shall 
be taken at my true worth.” 

“ Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Lady Clevedon as they drove 
through the gates of her domain; “that would be a punish- 
ment greater than you could bear!” 

He made a grimace. 

“ To a woman I must not grudge the last word,” he said. 

His cousin laughed. 

“When a man begins to give points to his adversary on 
account of her sex, the adversary may hoist the .flag of vic- 
tory.” 

“ Take it,” he said, “ take it and be thankful !” 

Clevedon was a large ugly block of building standing upon 
a raised plateau, whence the land sloped majestically towards 
the park. 

The faces of the two children grew eager as the great white 
house appeared in sight. 

The carriage having been dismissed. Aunt Augusta pro- 
posed a stroll till Percy and his sister should ret^urn from 
their ride. Meanwhile the children might gather some hot- 
house flowers to take back to their mother. 

“What a fine old place this is, in its own way!” Harry 
observed, as they wended their steps to the garden; “it is 
so gentlemanly, so” 

“Harry! There was a young man in ancient mythology 
called ” 

“Nay, so stately, so calm, so well bred; so smooth and 
blandly expansive,” pursued Harry, in language which would 
have pleased Quintilian, who always regarded as hopeful 
those pupils whose literary productions required pruning, 
rather than the young proficients whose style at the begin- 
ning showed the delicate reticence of maturity. 

“I like the place; I am not going to have it scoffed at,” 
said Aunt Augusta. 

“ Scoffed at! I am admiring it ! Scoffed at! Why, I have 
a friendly feeling towards every nodk and corner of it. I like 
it, I love it; but— it amuses me!” 

“ An incorrigible Momus!” cried Lady Clevedon. 

“It is perfect,” he broke out again. “I am sure Geoffrey 
and Viola agree with me that it is perfect.” 

“You bewilder these poor children, Harry.” 

“ Just run your eye round the four qiiarters of the heavens. 
Could anything be more dignified? I repeat my question, 
Viola— could anything be more dignified?” 


A YOUm MAN GALLED MOMUS. 


18 


She shyly shook her head. 

“ No ; nothing could he more dignified ! Look how the land 
spreads out round the mansion, m a sort of liberal manner, 
as if it would say; I am at your entire disposal; pray take as 
much of me as you please, there is no stint ; be expansive ; the 
more so the better ; you have only to mention the quantity 
and it is yours ! 

“Then observe what a benign and courteous sweep leads 
the eye from the terrace-level to the park. No abrupt lines 
there; your very curves are baronial! And your cattle! 
Wliat an air of conscious worth! what splendour of outline 
and richness of colour ! what harmony of action ! what a High- 
land fling of movement! what” 

“If you make fun of my husband’s Highland cattle, he’ll 
never forgive you : better make fun of me than that. Come, 
don’t dawdle so ; you are getting too garrulous. ” 

But change of scene proved no check to his eloquence. 

“ There is nothing in the world to beat an old English gar- 
den,” he exclaimed, rhetorically. “ What sweet and lazy in- 
fluences linger in the air by fern-fringed walls ! what indolent 
joys exhale from flower-borders where violets and precocious 
primroses offer themselves to be cherished— it is as if one had 
found a new world!” 

Viola looked up at him wonderingly, while Geoffrey, for- 
getting his shyness, suddenly began to talk — chiefly about 
rabbits and pistols and repeating-rifles. Then they all went 
into the hothouses, and came out laden with delicate sweetly- 
scented flowers, which Viola touched with ecstatic and rever- 
ent fingers. 

The children were allowed to amuse themselves as they 
pleased, while Aunt Augusta and her talkative cousin strolled 
on together. 

“ Harry,” she said, after a few minutes of desultory con- 
versation, “ have you given up that mad idea of yours yet?” 

“ About music?” His face changed and saddened. 

“ I cannot cure myself of the mad idea. Meanwhile, of 
course, I retain my commission,” he added, rather bitterly. 

“The sooner you cure yourself the better. As a musician 
you would starve. Besides, how do you know you have 
enough talent to” 

“I know nothing at ah about my talents— (pardon me for 
interrupting) ; I only know that failure in that pursuit would 
be sweeter to me than success in any other.” 

“ Foolish boy!” 

“ Now, Augusta, what do you mean? How often have you 

g reached to me against doing things by halves; how often 
ave you pierced with ridicule men who ‘ took up ’ a thing, 
and tinkled amiably upon some instrument, or made smudges 
on clean paper, — anjr one, in short, who tried to imitate the 
last stage of an art without laying the foundations. You said 


14 THE WING OF AZBAEL, 

it was like the attempt of a builder to roof a house that wasn’t 
built.-’ 

“ Well?” 

“Well; why not build the house from the foundation?” 

“ Why not go and starve?” she inquired. “ Go and starve 
to slow music?” 

Harry paused for a moment, looking at her ; and then, with 
one of his sudden inconsistent actions, he lifted his stick on 
to the tip of his first finger, balanced it there for a moment 
skilfully, and shot it up far and swift towards the sky. It 
rose, like a rocket, and came down again at a little distance 
into a gooseberry -bed. 

“ Take care that is not your fate,” said La^ Clevedon. 

“It must have been splendid going up,” Harry returned ; 
“ and what a ‘ fine rapture ’ when it had risen to its utmost 
and felt the heavens above, and the earth widen beneath 
it ” 

“ And how exhilara ting when it felt itself in the gooseberry- 
bed!” 

“ There are many sticks rotting in the gooseberry -bed that 
have never known the upper air at all,” Harry observed; 
“they have secured themselves against all risk of downfall 
by prudently taking the lowest place.” 

“Like the Unjust Steward,” suggested Lady Clevedon, 
whose Scripture was weak. 

“ Or the rebellious angels,” added Harry, with a laugh. 

He picked up a mouldering apple- twig and held it out to 
his cousin to consider. 

“Observe, it is damp and brittle; I can snap it anywhere, 
for it has not the toughness of life in it. Lichen grows upon 
it, and unwholesome moss, and it is teeming with crawling 
and creeping things,— shall I show you?” 

“Be good enough to keep away,” cried the lady hastily. 

“They are skurrying about in great agitation; they can’t 
imagine what has happened. They are telling one another 
that they knew how it would be all along, and that if only 
their advice had been listened to” 

“D— a— ml” exclaimed Lady Clevedon, spelling the word 
(after her own fashion) as a concession to public sentiment, 
“here are Sir Philip Dendraith and his incomparable son! 
What effrontery to come here before we have called at Upton 
Court ! I shall make him pay for this !” 

Sir Philip Dendraith was a tall, broad-shouldered man, 
with a hooked nose, high cheek-bones, sharp little blue eyes, 
and a grey beard, which retained signs of having once been 
reddish in tint. The younger ’Philip resembled his father 
scarcely at all ; he was a slim, dark-haired youth, with face 
and figure almost faultless. Harry Lancaster, fiinging away 
the decayed apple-twig, stood watching him with sudden in- 
tentness, while Lady Clevedon, donning her stiffest air, 
awaited the approach of the visitors. They raised their hats. 


A YOUNG MAN GALLED M0MU8. 


15 


‘‘Pardon our intrusion,” Sir Philip called out in a loud 
voice; “ we were taking a walk across country and lost our 
way ” 

“ So I observe,” said her Ladyship. 

“ Got into your park through the bit of woodland by the 
roadside down yonder, and found ourselves in the gardens 
before we knew where we were. Lady Clevedon, I pre- 
sume?” 

She bowed. 

“ Not — -?” with an interrogative glance at Harry. 

“Not,” she repeated conclusively. 

“Ah!” observed Sir Philip, throwing himself back and 
looking round, “ charming garden you have here.” 

“ I am glad it pleases you.” 

“Oh, vastly, vastly; fine old place altogether.” 

Lady Clevedon stood waiting. 

“Ah!” cried Sir Philip, descrying Viola and Greoffrey in 
the distance, “ your children no doubt ?” 

“ No,” she said, “ not my children.” 

“ Perhaps Lady Clevedon would be so kind as to mention 
which is the shortest way out of her domain,” interposed 
Philip Dendraith the younger ; “we have intruded long 
enough.” 

“ Allow me to come with you ; it is not easy to find the road 
unassisted,” said Harry. 

Sir Philip, apparently much against his will, was then hur- 
ried off by his son under Harry’s escort. 

“ I trust we shall shortly renew our acquaintance,” he said 
in parting; “ near neighbours, like ourselves, should make a 
point of being friendly. ” 

Again Lady Clevedon frigidly bowed. 

As the three arrived at the end of the path they came upon 
Geoffrey and Viola peering curiously into some hot-beds. 

“Vof Lady Clevedon’s children ?” repeated Sir Philip. 

“ No; her nephew and niece,” said Harry. 

“Nice little girl!” observed Philip the younger. “Fine 
eyes.” 

She flushed up, and took a step backwards. 

“ Let me see what colour they are.” 

She shut the lids tightly and covered her face. 

“Oh! unkind little girl! I shall tell your mamma,” said 
Philip teasingly. 

“Oh! no, no. noT she cried, with unexpected terror; 
^‘‘please don’t tell her.” 

“Is the mamma so formidable? Well, then, let me see 
your pretty eyes, and I promise not to tell how unkind you 
were.” 

But at this Viola again fell back, with a look of strange 
distress, whereupon Harry took her hand and said soothingly, 
“Never mind, Viola; this gentleman was only joking; he 
won’t tell your mother, if you don’t wish it.” 


16 


TEE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


He was holding open the garden-door as he spoke. 

On the. threshold Philip stopped, looked over his shoulder, 
and kissed the tips of his fingers gallantly. 

“ Nut-brown maid, farewell!” he said, and passed through 
with a laugh. 

“Come on, Viola; let’s go with them,” cried Geoffrey, tak- 
ing her hand ; “ he’s rather a lark, that fellow,” 

But Viola passionately fiung him off, and before he realised 
what had happened the child had run to the farther end of 
the garden. 

“ Rum things, girls !” was Geoffrey’s comment as he pur- 
sued his new-found hero and philosophically left the eternal 
riddle to solve itself among the gooseberry -bushes, 

When Harry returned after conducting the trespassers into 
the Upton Road, he found his cousin in a very bad temper. 

“Intolerable creature!” she broke out. “Where can he 
have sprung from, with his voice and his manners ? ‘ Fine 

place ’ indeed ! Impertinent upstart ! You were asking what 
a gentleman is, Harry ; well, I can tell you what a gentleman 
is no#;— Sir Philip Dendraith.” 

“Tactless person, certainly; and rather uncouth. The 
father and son are a curious contrast, are they not ?” 

“ Most extraordinary ! That boy is a Dendraith all over. 
Fine-looking lad.” 

“ A gentleman, I suppose ?” said Harry. 

“Every inch!” 

“I thought so. Well, as a mere man, give me that ‘lum- 
bering wain,’ his father; more qualities to rely upon there; 
more humanity, in short. There is something polished and 
cold-blooded about that young Adonis, with his white teeth, 
that gives me a shiver all up my spine. It is astonishing how 
insolent polished people can be.” 

“ The Dendraiths always were a little cold-blooded,” said 
Lady Clevedon, “and a little over clever. It is no# human to 
be very clever; one cannot disguise that fact.” 


CHAPTER HI. 


PHILIP DENDRAITH. 

Sir Philip Dendraith, by a sudden turn of fortune’s wheel, 
had been hoisted out of obscure and somewhat speculative 
spheres into the pure white light of what Harry Lancaster 
had called in his haste “landed propriety.” 

He was related to the last owner of the Dendraith estate 
through his mother’s family, a fact which he had enjoy ed and 


PHILIP DENDBAITH. 


17 


made much use of his former existence, having a highly- 
developed instinct of adoration for social pre-eminence, and a 
ferret’s keenness in routing out unwilling relatives, lofty and 
far-removed, but profitable. 

“ My cousin. Sir John Dendraith,” might have fallen from 
his dying lips in those prehistoric days when he owned to the 
solid and simple name of Thompson, and used to wander with 
his wife and son from small furnished house to smaller fur- 
nished house, where crochet antima-cassars and crystal lus- 
tres gave the keynote to existence. In those dark ages Mr. 
Thompson used to be always launching ideas which required 
capital and a company — falliant ideas that only wanted 
carrying out, such as a method of blacking hoots by machi- 
nery ; patent umbrellas that opened automatically on being 
held upright, and folded up again when their position was re- 
versed (facetious friends used to say that they even buttoned 
and unbuttoned themselves as occasion required). There were 
ingenious hooks and eyes that never came undone until their 
owner desired it, and then yielded without a struggle; coal- 
scuttles which made the putting on of coal a positive luxury 
to a sensitive invalid, — and other wonderful inventions, not 
to speak of the celebrated millennium double-action roller- 
blind, whose tassel could under no circumstances come off in 
the hand, and which never acquired the habit of rolling up 
askew and remaining blocked in a slanting and crazy position 
half-way up the window. As for his mowing-machine, and 
his instrument for putting out fires in their most advanced 
stages, a child might use them. 

Philip Thompson was endeavouring to increase his small in- 
come by bringing some of these valuable ideas into notice, 
when one morning, to his infinite surprise, he awoke and 
found himself Sir Philip Dendraith; that is to say, he was in- 
formed that, by a most extraordinary series of events, he had 
become the next heir to the Dendraith estates, and it was 
hoped that he would assume the family name. 

This he lost no time in doing, and with the name of Thomp- 
son he put away also things Thompsonian : his patent um- 
brellas and coal-scuttles ; and now only his plump and simple- 
minded wife took any pride or interest in these once absorb- 
ing themes. 

The social world was to this fortune-favoured man the only 
and the best of all possible worlds ; to rise in it his sole ambi- 
tion. With this object the family had always conscientiously 
kept something beyond their means, whether (said Lady 
Clevedon) it were a pheeton or a footman, or merely a titled 
relative, stuffed and cured, to stand picturesquely in the mid- 
dle distance and be alluded to. This, she added profanely, 
was of more value than many footmen. 

Her inclination had been to remain unaware of the exist- 
ence of the new baronet, but this idea was more easily con- 
ceived than carried out. 


18 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


When a church-bell clangs loudly every Sunday morning 
close to your ears, philosophy counsels that you take no 
notice of the barbarism, but human frailty may nevertheless 
succumb. 

Sir Philip had entered upon his new sphere in high good 
spirits, determined to enjoy all that it offered to the full, and 
to take his place among his peers with a dash and style that 
would make him known and respected throughout the coun- 
try. 

There was no escaping him. Like a teasing east wind that 
blows low, he met one round every corner, blustered against 
one at every turn, let one face north, south, east, or west in 
fruitless attempt at evasion. Perhaps Lady Clevedon, who 
could turn things social into ridicule cleverly enough, but to 
whom social laws were nevertheless indisputable, felt all 
along that there was no escaping the acquaintance of Philip 
Dendraith, be he mad, drunk, or a fiend in human shape; and 
she finally, in no very affable mood, drove over and called at 
Upton Court. 

Lady Dendraith’s plump good-nature much amused her 
visitor, and the latter came back disposed to be friendly to- 
wards the simple old person who was full of innocent pride 
in her husband and son, as weU as brimming over with naive 
astonishment at the sudden change in their fortunes. 

“ After lod^ngs and furnished houses, a place like this does 
seem wonderfully palatial; but my husband and son take to 
it as if they had been here all their lives, bless their hearts !” 

“Bless your heart, old lady !” thought the visitor, who was 
forgiving to any one who amused her. “ If ever there was a 
good old soul you are that person, my dear !” 

As for Lord*Clevedon, he regarded his new neighbours with 
the highest disfavour, though he too recognised the duty of 
knowing a Dendraith, in whatever stage of mental or moral 
decomposition he might chance to be. 

“ The fellow has none of the real Dendraith blood in him,” 
he said ; “ it was a sad pity that the old stock died out.” 

“ Have you seen the son ?” asked Lady Clevedon. 

Her husband straightened his thin figure, and drawing his 
head out of his necktie and collar, gave it a twist as if he had 
half a mind to unscrew the thing and take it down for closer 
examination— perhaps under the impression that the ma- 
chinery wanted oiling. 

“ Yes, I have seen the son.” 

“Not like either of his parents, I think. Did he not strike 
you as being very like that portrait of Andrew Dendraith at 
the old house on the cliff ?— the man who had such an extra- 
ordinary story, you know. I think he used to take opium 
among other things, and was suspected of having murdered 
his wife— though nobody could ever prove it. * He was a man 
of considerable power, but I don’t fancy he minded the pre- 


PHILIP HENDBAITH. 


19 


cepts he used to write in his copy-books as he might have 
done.” 

‘‘ The fellow was no credit to his relatives,” said Lord Cleve- 
don, screwing his head on again as a hopeless case (the works 
required a thorough cleaning, and he didn’t see his way to 
getting it done). 

“Andrew Dendraith,” he continued, “was one of the bad 
characters that seem to crop up in the family now and again, 
as if there were some evil strain in it not to he overcome.” 

“It is curious that this young Philip should be so like An- 
drew,” said Lady Clevedon; “the relationship is not very 
close, but the resemblance, to my mind, is striking. In figure 
they are alike ; this boy is taU and slim and well put together, 
as Andrew was, and he has the same cold, keen, handsome 
face, with clean-cut features, and already there is plenty of 
control over the muscles. His manners are polished — too 
polished for his age, almost ; though perhaps one fancies that, 
through seeing him beside his awful father, who really” 

“Who, upon my honour” assisted Lord Clevedon. 

“ Is likely to give the county a severe fit of social indiges- 
tion,” concluded his wife. 

However, the county gulped him down ; and though it suf- 
fered from a pain in the chest, it did its duty to the new rep- 
resentative or the Dendraiths, calling upon his wife with 
exemplary punctuality. 

Mrs. Sedley, among the rest, wearily set out to perform her 
task. She put on her best bonnet, provided herself with a 
card-case, and ordered the carriage. 

No one ever quite knew if that old vehicle would hold to- 
gether for another drive, but the family seemingly meant to 
go on paying its calls in it, till the faithful seiwant “died in 
harness,” as Harry Lancaster used to say, with characteristic 
enjoyment of incongruous metaphors. 

Geoffrey saw the old chariot at the door, and rushed in to 
ask if he and Viola might accompany their mother. 

“ And Bill Dawkins,” added Viola. 

“What larks if we break down on the road!” cried 
Geoffrey. 

However, no such lively calamity occurred; they rumbled 
respectably along the high-road and through the little villages. 
Bill Dawkins behaving with the utmost decorum on the back- 
seat beside Geoffrey ; so much so, in fact, that Viola was 
afraid he would get tired — whereat her brother jeered. 

“Bill Dawkins isn’t a airlT he cried scornfully. “Are 
you. Bill ?” at which compliment the poodle thumped his tail 
upon the carriage-cushion and cast down his eyes. 

Sir Philip, coming down the avenue of Upton Court, met 
the carriage driving up. Viola and Geoffrey recognised him 
and looked at one another. 

If Lady Clevedon or Harry Lancaster had been present, 


20 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL, 


theywould have derived much gratification from the sight of 
the meeting between Mrs. Sedley and her new neighbour. 

Sir Philip raised his hat gallantly and gave a loud shout of 
welcome. 

“How do you do, Mrs. Sedley ? Going to call on the old 
lady ? That’s right ; she’s just having a nap, — rather a weak- 
ness of Lady Dendraith’s — afternoon naps.’’ 

“I fear we shall disturb her,” said Mrs. Sedley in her 
steady, shy, withdrawn tones. 

“Dear me, no, not at all; she will be delighted, I assure 
you. We were wondering we hadn’t seen anything of you 
before. However, better late than never. Family cares, I 
daresay. These your chicks ? Halloa ! why, these are the 
two children I saw at Clevedon ! Lady Clevedon’s nephew 
and niece, of course. Well, my boy, can you conjugate your 
rvTtzo^ or do you spend all your time and brains on old Father 
Thames ? You must make friends of my boy, though he is 
some years older than you; he can conjugate you anything 
you hke, I can tell you. The young people are getting so 
clever nowadays, there’s no holding them. I see the little 
girl has had the good taste to copy her mother,” Sir Philip 
continued, chucking Viola under the chin. “ Couldn’t have 
had a better model, my dear. Will you give me a kiss ?” he 
asked, bending down without waiting for permission. 

“No, I won’t,” said the child, shrinking away from him 
and squecijing Bill Dawkins uncomfortably close to the farther 
side or the carriage. 

Sir Philip laughed. 

“ Ah ! you don’t care to kiss an old man hke me !” 

“No, I donH want to kiss you !” said Viola irately. Bill 
Dawkins barked. 

“ Viola, dear!” remonstrated Mrs. Sedley, at which a look 
of intense trouble came into the child’s face. If her mother’s 
sacred wishes and her own feelings should come into open 
conflict, there would blaze up a smaU Hell in that childish 
breast ; for, trivial as the occasion seemed to grown-up con- 
sciousness, the intensity of feeling that it called out is impos- 
sible to represent, much more to exagg;erate. 

“ Come now, I must have a kiss,” said Sir Philip in a play- 
ful manner, and going round to the other side of the carriage. 
“ If you give me a fes. I’ll mve you a sweetmeat when we 
get up to the house ; there’s a bargain now !” 

“ I don’t want sweetmeats — I don’t want sweetmeats,” cried 
Viola, darting away again in increased dislike as Sir Philip’s 
bearded face appeared beside her. 

“ She does not need any reward for behaving politely, I am 
sure,” said Mrs. Sedley. “Viola, dearest, you will give this 
gentleman a kiss when he asks you to do so.” 

The child’s eyes fixed themselves in silent desperation on 
the ground. Her face became white and set. 

“ That’s a good little girl,” said Sir Philip. “ I am sure we 


PHILIP DENDRAITH. 


21 


shall soon be excellent friends, for I am very fond of chil- 
dren. Now for ray kiss.” 

He bent forward to take it, when Viola, with a suppressed 
cry, wildly plunged oft the seat to the bottom of the carriage 
and hid her face in the rug. Upon this Bill Dawkins became 
violently excited, alternately jumping down to thrust his nose 
against Viola’s hair, and springing on to the seat to bark per- 
sistently in Sir Philip’s face, getting more and more enraged 
as that gentleman threw back his head and laughed heartilv, 
with the remark that he had neVer been treated so unkindly 
by a lady before. 

“Well, I suppose I must give it up for the present,” he 
said. “ If you will drive on to the house, Mrs. Sedley, I will 
return with you.” 

“Oh! please don’t let us bring you in,” began the visitor, 
but Sir Philip drowned her remonstrance, and directed the 
coachman to drive on. 

He met the carriage at the door, and helped Mrs. Sedley to 
ahght. 

Bill Dawkins sprang out with a yelp of joy, followed by 
Geoffrey. On the steps stood Philip Dendraith the younger. 

“Now then, little woman,” said Sir Philip kindly enough, 
as Viola held back, with defiant eyes. “ Come along.” 

“Come on, you young silly [’’urged her brother. “He 
doesn’t want to kiss you now.” 

Sir Philip leant across the carriage with a laugh, upon 
which the child, making a violent effort to escape, flung her- 
self against the door at the farther side, and fell, hurting her 
head and arm. In falling she had moved the handle of the 
door, which suddenly burst open. 

“ Good heavens! save her!” cried Sir Philip. 

Before the words were out of his mouth, his son, with mar- 
vellous rapidity, had darted round just in time to rescue the 
child from a dangerous fall. Her body was half out of the 
carriage when he caught her in his arms and carried her 
quickly into the house, where he laid her on a sofa and sum- 
moned his mother to the rescue. Mrs. Sedley had, fortu- 
nately, not seen the accident. 

“ Poor dear little creature !” cried the good Lady Dendraith, 
who had just been roused from her “nap,” “are you much 
hurt, my dear? I think not, for she doesn’t cry at all.” 

“She never cries,” said her mother, shaking her head; 
“ she is like a little woman when she hurts herself.” 

“Dear, dear! — what would she like, I wonder? — some 
brandy and water to revive her, and perhaps she ought to see 
the doctor.” 

But Mrs. Sedley thought that she could easily manage with 
the help of a few simple remedies. Viola appeared to have 
been rather startled than really hurt. 

She lay quite quiet, but with an anxious, watchful look in 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


her eyes, which changed to something approaching terror 
when Sir Philip’s loud voice was heard in the hall. 

She started up. 

“ Don’t let that man come in; don’t let him come in!” she 
cried wildly. 

Lady Dendraith looked surprised, and Mrs. Sedley natu- 
rally felt uncomfortable. 

“"Hush, Viola dear, nobody will disturb you; you should 
not speak so, you know ; it is not like a little lady. ” 

“I don’t want to be like a little lady!” cried Viola, who 
seemed to be in a strange state of excitement. 

“I think,” said Mrs. Sedley, “that I ought to take her 
home at once, though I am sorry to cut short my visit to you. 
Lady Dendraith; and I am most grateful for your kindness 
to my little girl.” 

When Mrs. Sedley said she would go she always went with- 
out delay, and Viola having shaken hands with her hostess 
(she refused to kiss her, though without impolite remarks), 
returned to the carriage on foot, looking behind her in a 
frightened manner lest her bete noire should be present. 

He was standing in the entrance when they went out, and 
expressed much concern at the shortness of the visit. Viola 
shrank away to the other side of her mother. 

“Well, young lady, I am glad to see you are all right again. 
Upon my honour, you sent my heart into my mouth when you 
burst that door open! What a fierce little maiden it is! I 
hoi)e you won’t treat your lovers in this fashion in the time 
to come, or you will have much to answer for.” 

Mrs. Sedley, objecting to have Viola spoken to about lovers, 
cut the conversation short by shaking hands with her host 
once more and entering the carriage. 

“No, I am not going to ask for a kiss now,” said Sir Philip, 
as Viola shrank away hastily, “but I think my son, who 
saved you from a severe accident, deserves one; and you 
won’t mind kissing Mm, though you are so unkind to his 
poor old father.” 

“I don’t want to kiss anybody as long as I live!” cried 

Viola. “ I hate everybody; 1” she broke down with sheer 

passion. 

Father and son burst out laughing, and Philip, bending 
down, lifted her swiftly in his arms, quietly kissed her in 
spite of her violent resistance, and placed her in the carriage 
beside the poodle who received her with acclamation. She 
struck her laughing enemy with her clenched fist, and then 
flinging herself against the cushions, she hid her face, draw- 
ing up the rug over her head, and burst into low heart-broken 
sobs. 

“Viola, Viola!” in tones of surprised remonstrance from 
Mrs. SedJey. 

The carriage rolled away down the avenue and emerged 
into the bare down country, but the child did not stir. Mrs. 


RELIGIOUS DIFFICULTIES. 


23 


Sedley was afraid that this unwonted excitement might be 
the precursor of some illness, and thought it wiser not to in- 
terfere except by a few soothing words. 

Geoffrey showed a boyish inclination to laugh at his sister 
for making such a fuss about nothing, but his mother re- 
proved him, as it seemed to make her more excited. 

Bill Dawkins was greatly concerned about her. He searched 
her out among the rugs, as if he were hunting for rats, and ex- 
pressed his sympathy with wistful eloquence. Once she put 
her arm round his neck and drew him to her passionately, 
and if it had not been for his thick coat, the good poodle might 
have felt some hot tears falling on his shaggy head. 

Viola did not recover her spirits all that day. Mrs. Sedley 
watched her anxiously, and sent her to bed early, with com- 
presses on her arm and a bandage on her head. 

When all was quiet, and Viola found herself alone, she 
crept out of bed, went to the window and drew up the blind. 
There stood the avenue, stately and beautiful in the moon- 
light, wreathed with mists. 

The vision brought the tears welling up again from the 
depths of the child’s wounded soul. Her grief was all the bit- 
terer because she could not express it in words even to herself; 
she could only feel over and over again, with all a child’s in- 
tensity, that she had been treated with insolence, as a being 
whose will was of no moment, whose very person was not 
her own ; who might be kissed or struck or played with ex- 
actly as people pleased, as if she were a thing without life or 
personality. Her sense of individual dignity— singularly 
strong in this child — was outraged, and she felt as if she could 
never forgive or forget the insult as long as she lived. The 
^’ocular good-natured way in which it had been offered made 
it only the more unbearable. 

“ I hate you; I Aafe,” cried Viola, mentally apostrophising 
her enemies, “I hate everybody in the world— except mother 
and Bill Dawkins.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

RELIGIOUS DIFFICULTIES. 

As soon as her children had acquired enough cohesion to 
sit upon a pew-seat, Mrs. Sedley bad taken them to church. 
Sometimes, indeed, she had been too hasty and taken them 
almost before that epoch, so that the hapless little beings used 
to crumple up and slip to the ground, keeping their mother 
occupied in gathering and replacing them during the service. 

Among Viola’s earliest remembrances were these miniature 


24 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


declines and falls, which had generally been occasioned by 
her being painfully tired during the early part of the service 
through the dire necessity of sitting still, and by the sleepy 
exhaustion produced at last by an infinite number of sup- 
pressed desires; among them a very vivid lon^ng to stroke 
the sealskin jacket of the former Lady Dendraith, who used 
to sit in the pew just in front of her. Once, in fact, watching 
her opportunity with beating heart, she had actually realized 
her soul’s ambition by drawing her little hand timidly down 
from Lady Dendraith’s shoulders to her waist, and then leav- 
ing off in a panic on hearing a smothered chuckle from one of 
her too wide-awake brothers. 

These delinquents took a special delight in leading her into 
mischief during service. The pew was large, and ran in two 
directions at right angles to one another, so that there was 
one part of it quite out of Mrs. Sedley’s range of vision, where 
unholy deeds might be wrought. Here they would pelt one 
another with dried peas and paper pellets, or build a Tower 
of Babel out of prayer-books ; the stately edifice almost reach- 
ing to the top of the pew. (It was one of Harry Lancaster’s 
wicked sayings, that Mrs. Sedley was going to mount into 
heaven upon a staircase of these volumes, and it must be ad- 
mitted that the number of her books of devotion was exciting 
to the profane imagination.) 

Viola characteristically took all matters connected with 
religion in grim earnest. Her after-pangs of remorse if she 
had taken too much interest in the Tower of Babel were very 
keen, and she often suffered indescribable terrors from the 
conviction that her sins would be punished in the fires of hell. 
Sometimes she experienced strange emotional upliftings 
when she believed tliat she felt the very presence of Christ, and 
a passionate inspiration for a life devoted only to his service. 
And then would follow days of fruitless effort to keep up to 
the level of these ecstatic moments. 

On Sunday afternoons it vvas Mrs. Sedley’s custom to read 
the Bible with the two children, taking them into her own 
special sitting-room (boudoir is a term inconsistent with this 
lady), and closing the door after her with a quiet solemnity 
which to Viola had something of awful sacredness. 

Geoffrey, alas! had been known to whistle a secular melody 
after that ceremony of initiation, and it was a common 
amusement with him to secretly alter all the markers in his 
mother’s Bible and “Daily Meditations;” or to place them 
against chapters in the Old Testament that consisted chiefly 
of proper names, because his mother found some difficulty in 
pronouncing them. 

After the reading, the children were allowed to express 
their ideas upon what they had heard, and to ask a few ques- 
tions. Geoffrey always took a morbid interest in Satan, and 
(Satan being a biblical character) Mrs. Sedley could not con- 


RELIGIOUS DIFFICULTIES. 


25 ^ 


slstently refuse to gratify it. His questions were of a nature 
to whiten the hair of an orthodox mother. 

Viola’s difficulties were of another kind. She could not un- 
derstand the stories of holy treachery and slaughter related 
of the children of Israel, in whose wanderings she and her 
brother always took the keenest interest. It was an actual 
grief to her when her heroes suddenly broke away from a 
most well-ordered and respectable career to go forth, like a 
swarm of hornets, to injure and destroy. That “the Lord 
commanded them ” only made the matter darker. Mrs. 
Sedley could not enter into these difficulties. She herself 
would not have hurt the poor fly, which appears to be re- 
garded as the last creature entitled to human mercy (unless, 
perhaps, it interrupted her prayers or distracted her atten- 
tion from holy things); but she entirely approved of the 
wholesale massacres perpetrated by the chosen people in the 
name of the Lord, and considered that His name was greatly 
glorifled thereby. 

Viola was also disturbed by the strange sto#*y about Balaam 
when he was sent for by Balak to come and “ curse hhn” the 
Israelites. “ God came unto Balaam at night, and said unto 
him : If the men come to call thee, rise up and go with them : 
but yet the word which I shall say unto thee, that shalt 
thou do.” 

So Balaam naturally goes. 

Then, to Viola’s infinite bewilderment, “God’s anger was 
kindled because he went, and the a ngel of the Lord stood in 
the way for an adversary against him.” 

The child’s face of dismay at this apparent instance of 
Divine inconsistency would have been comic had it not been 
piteous. 

“ But why was God angry when He had told Balaam the 
night before to go with the men if they came to call him?” 

Mrs. Sedley first said that “the ways of Providence were 
past finding out,” but remembering that her sister-in-law had 
once burst into a fit of immoderate laughter at this reply, she 
suggested that the Lord had possibly meant to try Balaam’s 
faithfulness. 

She never noticed in her younger pupil the hungry desire 
to find some real loveliness that she could worship ; she never 
saw the piteous efforts of the tender-hearted child to adore 
the (>od who sent forth the Israelites to smite whole races 
with the edge of the sword, and to leave not one remaining of 
the people. 

Fortunately the New Testament was read on alternate 
Sundays, and if to love Christ be the one thing needful for 
salvation, Viola certainly fulfilled the condition. She was an 
enthusiastic little Christian, though there were yet many 
flaws in her orthodoxy which her mother had to patch up as 
best she might. 

Being made sound on one side, she was apt to give way on 


20 


THE WING OF AZllAEL. 


tbe other, causing poor Mrs. Sedley much trouble, and de- 
nianding more mental agility than she possessed. How_ God 
could be willing to accept the pain and grief of one divine 
being as a substitute for the pain and grief of other guilty 
beings was what Viola could not understand. If the guilt 
could pass away from the guilty at all, how^ should God let 
the burden of it rest on some one else, as if God were greedy 
of pain for His creatures and could not forgive generously 
and entirely? It was like the story of the young prince who, 
when he was naughty, had a little slave beaten in his stead, 
quite to the satisfaction of the royal father. Eeligious diffi- 
culties began early in Viola’s experience, as probably they do 
in most essentially religious natures. Doctrine and dogma 
and commentary Avere provided for her so liberally, that, as 
Wilkins, the coachman, technically remarked, “it Avas 
enough to give the poor child a surfeit. ” Thomas, Avith his 
practical instincts, “ didn’t see no sense in cramming a lot o’ 
religion into a young lady with Miss Viola’s prospects, he 
didn’t— not a lot o’ fancy stuff of Mrs. Sedley ’s makin’ up, as 
drawed down the face till it was as long as a ’olly’ock; and 
never a smile or a ‘ good day ’ to a soul about the place— he 
didn’t see what good come of such religion, he didn’t.” And 
Thomas shoved his spade into the earth with a \ugour cor- 
responding to the vigour of his conAuction that if he could see 
no use in a thing, use in it there could not possibly be. 

When Geoffrey Avas aAvay (and this, of course, Avas during 
the greater part of the year) Viola led a strange, lonely life. 
She had no companions, Mrs. Sedley being afraid to let her 
associate much with her cousins at Clevedon, because their 
training Avas, in her opinion, so'godless. 

Viola’s education was of the simplest character. Her 
mother gave her lessons in history, geography, and arithmetic 
every morning after the usual Bible reading and prayer, and 
as she grew older Viola had to practise her music for an hour 
every afternoon. Music being one of her passions, the hour, 
in spite of its drudgery, had its charms. The piano Avas in the 
drawing-room, a large dreary, dimly lighted dungeon, Avhich 
chilled the very marrow of one’s bones. The furniture Avas 
set stiffly against the colourless Avails, Avhile the dreaiy orna- 
ments under their glass shades seemed— as Harry Lancaster 
fantastically remarked— like lostsoiils that had migrated into 
glass and china bodies, and there petiified, entranced, Avere 
forced to stand in the musty silence till the crack of Doom. 

Just for one hour daily that musty silence Avas broken. It 
Avas an enchanted hour, especially in autumn and Avinter, 
when the fire-light made the shadoAvs dance on the walls and 
ceiling, and threAv a rosy glow over the Avhole colourless scene. 
And then the spirit of music arose and Avent forth, weaving 
spells, and calling from the shadows a thousand other spirits 
Avho seemed to fill the dull old room Avith tumultuous life and 
the air with strange SAveet thrills and Avhispers from a world 


RELIGIOUS DIFFICULTIES. 


27 


unknown. I^hen the lost souls would cast otf the curse that 
held them, and become half -human again, though they were 
very sad, indeed quite heart-broken, for they knew they were 
imprisoned in these ridiculous bodies till time should be no 
more, and then what awaited them but the torments of the 
damned? Viola would be seized sometimes with a panic as 
she thought of it. 

There were two glass lustres on the marble mantelpiece, 
which caught the fire-light brilliantly, and in the centre an 
ormolu clock with a pale blue face of Sevres china, a clock 
whose design must have been conceived during a vivid opiuin 
dream of its author, so wild and unexpected were its outlines, 
so distracted and fantastic its whole being. 

“A drunken beast,” Harry Lancaster had once called the 
thing after a state call at the Manor-House. As it had cost 
fifty pounds, Mrs. Sedley fondly hoped and concluded that it 
was exquisitely beautiful, and she would have been very 
much amazed, though hut*slightly offended, had any one pre- 
sumed to doubt its loveliness. 

If the imprisoned soul had a sensitive nature, how it must 
have suffered from the impertinent quirks and affected 
wrigglings of its domicile ! how it must have hated being 
misrepresented to the world by so florid and undignified a 
body ! 

Perhaps Viola enjoyed her hour of practising so much 
partly because she was then certain to be alone. At no other 
time in the day could she count upon this. She would often 
remain in the drawing-room long after the practising was 
over, much to the astonishment of her mother. 

There was something indescribably fascinating to the child 
in the silence that followed the music ; it was quite unlike the 
silence that preceded it— unlike every other silence that one 
knew. 

In autumn, when it grew dusk early in the afternoon, she 
could hear, between the pauses of the music, the sound of old 
“ Willum’s” broom sweeping the dead leaves from the path 
before the window. This too fascinated her. The notes 
would pour out at times as if they were inspired by the roar 
of the wind outside, which was stripping the great trees of 
their foliage,— and suddenly they would cease— a pause — 
then always again, through the wind’s tumult, the steady 
swish-swish upon the gravel, and the old man’s bent, patient 
form moving slowly forwards along his path of toil. 

The wild freedom of the wind, the wild sweetness of the 
remembered music— the dim room, the lost souls— what was 
it in the scene that stirred the childish heart to its depths ? 
Nature, human toil, human possibilities, joys unutterable, 
and unutterable dooms,— even here, in this sheltered, monot- 
onous home, those spectres stood upon the threshold of a 
young life, to announce their presence to the soul. 


28 


THE WINQ OF AZRAEL. 


CHAPTER V. 

BREAKING BOUNDS. 

Ip only she was left alone, Viola could make herself very 
happy in the gardens and quaint old surroundings of her 
home. She had the poetic faculty of drawing out the secrets 
of common things. The cucumber-frames, the old garden, 
the tumble-down red-roofed sheds where Thomas potted his 
geraniums, the apple-house smelling so deliciously, and the 
conservatory, with its warm sweet scents of earth and flowers ; 
not one of these but gave her exquisite pleasure. 

She had many favourite haunts and one secret retreat in the 
heart of a little wood whither she used to run at rare and 
ecstatic moments when she managed to elude the vigilance 
of her nurse. 

Had it not been for Viola’s loving reverence for her mother, 
she would have much oftener tasted the delights of liberty, 
for they were very sweet ; poor little phantom of liberty as it 
w^as that she enjoyed, when for a brief half-hour she buried 
herself in her leafy hermitage and felt that no human being 
in all the world knew where she was or could interfere wdth 
her, mind or body. 

Viola had all sorts of treasures here, gathered in the woods 
and fields: plants, .snail-shells, oak-apples, and strange inse.';ts, 
which she kept in a large deal-box furnished forth with mould 
and greenery, much after the fashion of the poor tadpoles’ 
home, — those tadpoles who, alas ! had never thriven, and one 
morning, after a night of heavy rain, had been washed away. 
Heaven only knew whither. That had been a real tragedy 
to Viola, and now" another was in store for her. 

It was autumn; a mildly splendid day late in the season, 
but singularly warm for the time of year. 

The nurse, happily, became languid with the heat, and sat 
down, while Viola w"as allow^ed to wander about by herself. 
She took the opportunity to visit her domain. The sunshine 
that filtered through the fretted beech-roof seemed different 
from any other sunshine that ever worked a forest-miracle ; 
the wreaths of clematis and eglantine and the glossy-leaved 
briony flung themselves from branch to branch w ith wilder 
freedom than in any other spot in all the earth — so thought 
their little votary. The place corresponded to the vividly 
fresh and joyous side of the child’s nature, as the chill draw- 
ing-room, with its lest ond tortured souls, and its patient old 
patrol without sweeping dead leaves from others’ pathways, 


BREAKING BOUNDS. 29 

answered to the more thoughtful and melancholy side of her 
character. 

The bower was sacred to Life and Liberty; the drawing- 
room to servitude and death, in all the forms in which they 
attack humanity. 

Across the lawn, with Bill Dawkins at her heels, along a 
flower-broidered walk behind the garden-wall, Viola hastened ; 
then out by a wicket-gate into the park, and across the open, 
in the face of staring cows, to a little copse, the sacred grove 
wherein the temple stood. She plunged in and pursued her 
way along the path which she had worn for herself in strug- 
gling through the underwood. She paused for a moment, 
thinking she caught an unusual sound in the solitude. There 
seemed to be a slight rustling and shaking among the leaves, 
as if the nerves of the little wood were thrilling. Viola’s 
heart beat fast. What if her temple were discovered and 
desecrated? She hurried on breathlessly; the mysterious 
tremor continuing, or rather increasing, as she came near. 
Her forebodings were only too true ! 

There, in the holy of holies, stood Thomas, pruning-knife 
in hand (he had always been a maniacal primer), tearing and 
cutting down the magnificent sheets of clematis, — just then 
in the height of its glory,— crushing the berries of the briony 
beneath his heavy boots, and running his ruthless knife 
round the trunks of the trees ivhere the ivy climbed too high. 

“O Thomas, Thomas, what Jmve you done?” exclaimed 
Viola piteously. Bill Dawkins barked aggressively at the 
destroyer with his tail erect, exactly as if he were saying, 
“On behalf, sir, of this young lady, I demand an explana- 
tion.” 

The old iconoclast turned slowly round and looked at Viola 
and her poodle, not in the least understanding. 

“I’m a takin’ the ivy*off some of these ’ere trees,” he ob- 
served, dragging down a great network of greenery and fling- 
ing it on the ground. 

“ Why do you take down the pretty ivy ?” asked the child 
tearfully. 

“ Explain yourself, sir,” barked Bill Dawkins. 

“Why, because it’ll kill the trees if I leaves it grow,” said 
Thomas. 

“ But why do you pull down the clematis and the briony ? 
Oh, why do you, Thomas ?” 

“Why, Miss,” said Thomas, puzzled, “I thought as it 
looked untidy sprawling all over the place; I didn’t know as 
you liked to see it, or I wouldn’t have touched it ; not on no 
account.” 

Viola gave the old man a little sad forgiving smile and the 
hot tears fell as she moved desolately away, like some lost 
spirit driven from its home. 

What maniac was it who said that sorrow is the nurse of 
virthe ? Surely it is the inspirer of all rebellious sins. It is 


30 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


like a storm, destroying old landmarks. How petty, how un- 
noticeable to the great tempest must seem the little walks 
and fences marking the “mine ” and “ thine ” of men ! And 
great sorrow, whatever its occasion, has in it all the blindness 
and the passion of a tempest. 

It was not merely the defilement of the consecrated spot 
that filled the childish heart with grief. In its destruction 
Viola dimly saw a type of the degrading of all loveliness, the 
crushing of all exquisite and delicate things. A lonely life 
had fostered in her this poetic tendency to read figurative 
meanings into outward objects; and these types were to her 
not mere shadows, but solid links that bound together all the 
world, material and spiritual, in an intimately related whole. 

It had always been one of Viola’s dearest ambitions to reach 
the sea, the vision of whose sparkling immensity had strongly 
moved her when she and Geoffrey used to go up to the top of 
the great avenue and look down upon it. 

But she was strictly forbidden to wander beyond the garden 
when her nurse was not with her, and the sea was not only 
beyond the garden, but beyond the park! Yet the siglit of 
the avenue, with the long afternoon shadows lying across it, 
its tempting perspective leading the eye upwards toAvards the 
forbidden country, filled Viola with an overpowering desire 
to be on the verge of the great waters, to feel the sea- wind in 
her face and hear the boom of the waves upon the beach. 

Her grief made ordinary rules seem petty, and she turned 
her steps towards the avenue, without pausing to consider con- 
sequences, causing Bill Dawkins to give a yelp of joy, and to 
run gaily after the cattle, Avho Avere staring Avith all their 
might at the intruders. And noAv the spirit of adventure be- 
gan to stir in the child’s breast, and she instinctively quick- 
ened her footsteps, thrilled with the sensation o: her freedom 
and ready to buy it at almost any price. 

Arrived at the top of the avenue, she stood breathless — Bill 
Dawkins by her side — and gazed at the brilliant scene before 
her. Wood and field and farmstead lay placidly dozing in the 
benedictory sunshine; these merging gradually into bare 
downs, and these again abruptly ending in the cliffs Avhich 
reared their stately ramparts to the sea. The sea ! Ah ! there 
it lay stretched in a long gleaming line from farthest east to 
farthest west, hiding its mystery and its passion Avith a lovely 
smile. 

Viola, climbing the locked park-gate, found herself upon the 
public road. She felt a faint thrill of awe as she saw it stretch- 
ing before her, white and lonely between the clipped hedges. 

it was poor upland country"; quite different from the land 
about the Manor-house, which lay in the valley of a little 
stream. But so much the more Avild and delightful ! 

How far away the sea might be, Viola did not knoAv; she 
made straight for it, as if she had been a pilgrim bound for 
her shrine. 


BREAKim BOUNDS. 


31 


It was very lonely. For half an hour she had walked 
without meeting any one, and then the road ran through a 
little village where some children were playing and an old 
woman crept along with a bundle under her arm. 

She stared at Viola, and the children stared. Bill Dawkins 
smelt at the bundle, and would have sniffed at the children, 
but they fled shrieking to their mothers. Viola quickened 
her pace, vaguely feeling that human beings were menacing 
to her liberty. A turn of the road took her again into soli- 
tude, and .with it came a strange intoxication. How marvel- 
lous was this sunshine pouring down over the wide cornflelds ! 
It seemed to confuse all reflection and to wrap the mind in an 
ecstatic trance. How madly the larks were singing this 
afternoon! The flelds were athrill with the flutter of wings 
and the air quivered with song. Once Viola was tempted to 
leave the road and take a short cut by the side of a little 
copse, where Bill Dawkins went wild after game, and caused 
his mistress some delay by his misdeeds. The shadows were 
perceptibly longer when she and the dishevelled poodle (now 
distinguished by a mud-covered nose) emerged again upon 
the high-road. 

Here the sea came clearly into sight, acting upon the heart 
of the little pilgrim as a trumpet-call. The country became 
more and more bare and bleak as it rose towards the cliffs; 
the crops grew thinner, and gradually cultivation fell off into 
little patches here and there, till at last it ceased altogether, 
and there was nothing but the wild down grass shivering in 
the sea-wind. 

If inland, the sunshine had seemed brilliant and all-pervad- 
ing, here on the open downs, with the gleaming of the sea aU 
round, its glory was almost blinding. 

Would they never reach the cliff side ? 

Viola started into a run, and Bill Dawkins bounded madly 
in front of her, looking back now and then to make sure that 
she was following. 

The saltness of the ocean was in the air; the fresh wind 
stung the child’s cheeks to crimson. At last the end of the 
journey was reached ; a little coastguard station marked the 
highest point, and then the land sloped with different degrees 
of abruptness towards the edge of the great cliff, which rose 
to a vast heig;ff above the sea, so that a boat rocking on the 
waves beneath had to be carefully sought for by the eye, and 
appeared as a tiny black speck upon the water. 

There were a few streaks of smoke left far away on the 
horizon, in the wake of vanished steamers, and one or two 
fishing-boats lay becalmed ; the sky line was lost in haze, a 
fine-weather haze, betokening heat. Viola sat down on the 
grass to rest, with her arm round Bill Dawkins. Oh the mar- 
vel of that sunshine ! How the air thrilled and trembled with 
the splendour of it ! The earth seemed as if it were swimming 
in a flood of light. Surely one could feel it reeling through 


32 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


the regions of space, a joy- intoxicated creature ! Viola looked 
round, half in fear, half in rapture, at the thought of the 
world’s mad dance through endless solitudes, and she actually 
believed that she felt the whirl of its motion as the breeze 
went by, and the wide horizon seemed to swim round her 
dizzily. 

The swerving sensation was perhaps increased by watching 
the sea-gulls poising and wheeling in the air along the giddy 
cliff-side, and the jackdaws swarming and chattering about 
its clefts and crevices. 

Sometimes the gulls would rise above the summit of the 
headland and come so close to Viola that she could hear the 
strange creaking of their wings as they swooped and swung 
and swept in a thousand graceful caprices of movement, to 
finish dramatically with a sudden dive or turn in the air, ut- 
tering their melancholy cry. Viola felt herself thrill from 
head to foot. These birds fascinated her, but she did not like 
them. They seemed cold, able, finished creatures, but they 
had no feeling, they were utterly pitiless— like Philip Den- 
draith, she thought. The little jackdaws were not so graceful 
or so perfect, but they were pleasanter and more human. 
They were like his kind old mother. 

Ah ! how sweet was the scent of the earth ! how sweet the 
breath of the sea ! Viola envied the family of the coastguards- 
man who dwelt in the little whitewashed cottage, with its tar- 
blackened waterbutt outside the door, and the flag placidly 
curving over the roof in the faint sea-breeze. Two sea-gulfs 
with flashing plumage were sweeping round it, grandly un- 
dulating, while on the bank outside the house lay a young 
child with round limbs bare to the sun and winds, a being 
almost as free as the wild sea-birds themselves. 

Viola wished that she too had been a child of the coast- 
guardsman, so that she might live always upon this cliff- 
side, in the fresh winds; always — sleeping and waking — 
have that sea-murmur in her ears, and the cry of the gulls 
thrilling her with sweet fancies. She was too excited to sit 
still. She rose presently and began to walk farther along the 
cliff, going near enough to the edge to see the scattered rocks 
at its foot, and to watch the gulls as they circled and swooped 
and settled in busy companies, intent upon their fishing. 

At some distance farther along the coast another headland 
ran out into the sea, and upon it Viola could discern what 
looked like a ruined castle, standing desolate above the 
waves. Had she known the part which that castle was to 
play in her life she would have turned and fled back to her 
home instead of pursuing her adventure. She had heard her 
father speak of some old ruin oii the coast: how once it stood 
far inland ; but the hungry sea had gnawed at the cliffs till it 
crept up close to the castle, which now stood defiant to the 
last, refusing to yield to the besieger. As she drew near, 
Viola that there was a belt of wind storm trees encircling 


BBEAKim BOUNDS. 


33 


the ruin at Some distance inland, and that in a hollow of the 
downs lay what seemed to be the gardens and surroundings 
of a human habitation. A gate led into a short avenue, at 
the end of which stood a large gloomy-looking house, built 
of grey stone. 

The place appeared deserted and was falling into decay. 
On the steps moss was growing luxuriantly, the front door 

g ave the impression that it was never opened, and the win- 
ows had evidently not been cleaned for years. 

Viola’s curiosity was aroused, but with it an undefined 
sense of fear; the place was so strangely lonely, and had 
such a deadly look of gloom. It recalled to the child her own 
lonely position, and suggested vague and awesome thoughts 
which had not assailed her out in the sunshine. But she 
could not leave the vault-like old house without further ex- 
plorations. It had for her a mysterious fascination. 

She found that it possessed great half-ruined stables and 
a large yard at the back, — the weeds growing apace betw'een 
the paving-stones. She ventured to try if she could enter the 
house by the back-door, but it was locked ; so was the door 
of the stable. 

The gardens, which lay sheltered from the wind in the hol- 
low, were beautiful in their neglected state. There was a ter- 
race on the higher ground with a stately stone palisade, and 
at either end an urn, round which chmbing plants were 
wreathed in the wildest abandonment. Below, among the 
little pillars of the parapet, a fiery growth of fiow^ers rushed 
up, fiame-like, amid grasses and self-sown vegetation of all 
kinds. The house was joined to the ruin, which ran out upon 
the headland, and appeared to be almost surrounded by the 
sea. Part of the castle had been repaired and converted into 
a dwelling, and this had then been added to till the habitable 
portion of the building attained its present gaunt appearance 
and great size. 

Viola’s next step was to explore the castle which stood peri- 
lously balancing itself on the extreme verge of the land, strik- 
ing roots, as it seemed, into the rock, and clinging on to the 
narrow wave-fretted headland for dear life. The limestone 
cliff had been worn to a mere splinter, which ran out into the 
sea, the neighbouring land being reft into narrow gorges, into 
which the waves rushed searchingly with deep reverberations. 
The ruin was wonderfully preserved considering its exposed 
situation. The walls were of immense thickness, and it seemed 
as if the rock on which they stood must itself crumble before 
they yielded to the long-continued assault of time and weather. 
Apparently the castle had once been a Norman stronghold, 
though now only a very small portion of it remained to tell 
the tale. 

By this time the brilliancy of the day had begun to decline ; 
and with the afternoon had come that pensive look that set- 
tles upon a landscape when tlie light ceases to pour down upon 


34 - 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


it directly from above. The voice of the wind, too, had grown 
melancholy as it wandered through the great ruined windows 
and stirred the sea-plants that had managed to establish them- 
selves in the inhospitable soil. 

Bill Dawkins of course had run wild, scampering hither 
and thither in breathless astonishment, poking his muddy 
nose into dark passages, scrambling helter-skelter to the top 
of a ruined staircase, where he would be seen standing with 
his comical alert-looking figure marked against the sky, tail 
high in the air, head well raised, and in his whole attitude an 
air of intelligent inquiry which would have convulsed with 
laughter anybody to whom animal life was a less serious 
affair than it wa^ to Viola. The dog looked as if he ought to 
be scanning the horizon with a telescope to one eye. 

Viola was just about to follow him up the steps, when she 
was startled, and for the moment terror-stricken, by a loud 
peal of laughter which rose above the ceaseless pulse-beat of 
the waves in the rock-chasms round about. She gave a low 
gasp and clutched a little tamarisk bush beside the staircase, 
for she had almost fallen. She listened breathlessly. The 
laughter was renewed, and Viola now heard several men’s 
voices, apparently coming from the farthest part of the ruin. 
If she were discovered here, these men might be angry with 
her for trespassing. Her ideas were vague and full of fear; 
the romantic strangeness of the place, with its hollow subter- 
ranean sounds, excited her imagination. Though prepared 
for almost anything however, it did not occur to her that Bill 
Dawkins’ scamper to the top of the mined staircase, at that 
particular moment, was to determine the whole course of her 
future life ; but so it proved. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE CUSTODIAN OP THE CASTLE. 

Viola crouched lower and lower in her hiding-place, for 
she fancied the voices were coming nearer. The tones some 
what reassured her, for they were quiet and pleasant. 

“ I should like to know where the little beast comes from,” 
one of the invisible beings remarked; I never saw anything 
to beat that attitude. It’s not only human, it’s classical.” 

“Classical?” echoed a second voice, which Viola thought 
not quite so pleasant as the former. 

“Our friend means that it possesses the attributes of a 
class,” said a third voice, this one quite different in tone and 
quality from the other two ; there was a slight touch of cock- 


THE CUSTODIAN OF THE CASTLE. 35 

ney accent, and an evident struggle with the temptation to 
say /^attributes. 

“Quite so; you always know what I mean, Foster,” said 
the first voice; “that poodle has the manners of the higliest 
circles ; quite clear that he mingles in good society. I must 
really introduce him to my cousin; she would be charmed 
with him.” 

“Lady Clevedon is not without class prejudices,” the man 
called Foster remarked in a judicial manner. “Women of 
the upper ranks have much to contend with; we must look 
leniently upon their follies ; it is the part of the philosopher 
to smile, not to rail, at human weakness.” 

Viola thought this sounded promising for her. This toler- 
ant person, at any rate, would be on her side, if she were 
found guilty of the human weakness of trespassing. 

“We must not forget,” the philosopher pursued, “that 
only a limited responsibility can be attached to the human 
being in his present relations with the universe. Without 
plunging into the vexed question of Free Will, which has set 
so many thinkers by the ears, we must admit that our free- 
dom can only exist, if at all, in a certain very modified de- 
gree. We are conscious of an ability to c/zoose, "but our choice 
is, after all, an affair of temperament, and our temperament 
a matter of inherited inclinations, and so forth, modified from 
infancy by outward conditions.” 

“We are not compelled to do things, only we must,” some 
one interposed a little impatiently. 

The philosopher laughed. 

“ Quite so, Mr. Dendraith; we are compelled by ourselves; 
the ‘ Ego ’ constrains itself, and I don’t see how we can logi- 
cally retreat from that position.” 

“ Well, I for one am quite prepared to do it « /logical ly !” 

This idea seemed to stun the philosopher, who made no 
reply. 

At the mention of the word Dendraith Viola’s heart 
stopped beating. The memory of that visit to Upton Court 
still rankled, and her hands clenched themselves fiercely at 
the remembrance. Presently, to her horror and surprise, 
the enemy came in sight, followed by his companions. They 
could not see her, for she was hidden behind the flight of 
steps. 

They had strolled on till they came to one of the great win- 
dows, and here they established themselves in a group, Philip 
Dendraith sitting in the deep embrasure, digging out weeds 
from between the stones with the entl of his stick; Harry 
Lancaster leaning against the masonry with his head thrown 
back ; while the philosopher, a small fair man with a little 
face and big forehead, sat huddled together on a large stone, 
amidst a tangle of weedy vegetation, the tips of his fingers 
joined, and his head meditatively on one side. His hands 
showed that he had been engaged in manual work. He was 


36 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


pale, and spare ; and he wore a small, very fair beard and 
moustache. His eyes were light blue and exceedingly intelli- 
gent. 

Against the background of gleaming sea the figure of 
Philip Dendraith, framed by the rough Norman window, 
stood out very strikingly. Every line was strong and flow- 
ing, and the face laid equal claims to admiration. 

Yet, perfect as it was, it by no means lacked strength or 
individuality, as handsome faces often do. There was only 
too much strength in the thin delicate lips, and in the square 
jaw which gave vigour to the face, without heaviness. The 
eyes were rather small and close-set; keen in expression. 
Dark, sleek hair, closely cropped, harmonised with a smooth, 
brown and colourless sMn ; a laugh or smile displayed a set of 
miraculously white teeth, even and perfect as if they had 
been artificial. As often happens, this last perfection gave a 
singularly cold expression to the face; after the first shock of 
admiration (for it was nothing less), tliis became chillingly 
apparent, but the eye still lingered on the chiselled outlines 
with a sort of fascination. Philip Dendraith seldom smiled, 
but when he did the smile had always the same character. 
It was steely and brilliant, with a lurking mockery not pleas- 
ant to encounter. His manners, young man as he was, were 
very polished ; he was by instinct a courtier. 

“ If the fellow were going to murder you,” Harry Lancaster 
used to say, “he would bow you into an easy -chair, so that 
you might have it done comfortably.” 

It would have been hard to find two men more unlike than 
Philip Dendraith and Harry Lancaster. 

Cold, keen, self-reliant, fascinating, Philip compelled ad- 
miration, and to certain natures his personality was abso- 
lutely dazzling. Power of all kinds is full of attraction, and 
power this young man possessed in no common degiee. 
Already he was beginning to exercise an almost boundless 
influence over women, whose education— the potent, uncon- 
scious education of their daily lives— tends to exaggerate in 
them the universal instinct to worship what is strong. 

Harry Lancaster’s charm, curiously enough, lay partly in 
the absence of certain qualities that made the other man so 
attractive. He had none of those subtle flatteries which were 
so pleasant even when they could not be supposed to proceed 
from real feeling, but he was genial, ready to help, quick to 
foresee and avoid what might wound another’s feelings; dar- 
ing, nevertheless, in the expression of unpopular opinion to 
the last extreme. • 

In Philip’s suavities there often lurked a hidden sting— so 
well hidden that it could not be openly resented, yet full of 
the bitter poison of a sneer. 

It was in his nature to despise men and women, and to rule 
them through their weakness for his own ends. 

“As w© were saying, then, before our friend’s inordinate 


THE CUSTODIAN OF TEE CASTLE. 


37 


laughter interrupted our cogitations,” the philosopher re- 
marked, taking up the lost thread of conversation with his 
usual pertinacity— “as we were saying, Eealism as opposed 
to Nominalism is doomed to extinction under the power- 
ful ” 

“Paw,” suggested Philip. 

“Paw of Science ?” said Caleb Foster dubiously. “The 
metaphor seems crude.” 

“ But powerful, like the Paw,” said Philip, sending a pebble 
spinning over the window-ledge into the sea. 

“Science,” pursued Caleb, weighing his words, “is the en- 
emy of poetry and mysticism” 

I doubt that,” said Harry, “I think it has a poetry and 
mysticism of its own.” 

“That point we must lay aside for after-discussion,” re- 
turned the clear-headed Caleb quietly. 

“Better put that aside, certainly,” observed Philip. 

“ Science views Nature as a vast concourse of atoms con- 
strained only by certain eternal vetos (if one may so speak), 
and out of the general co-ordination of these vetoed units 
arise the multiplex phenomena that we see around us.” 

Viola leant forward eagerly, trying hard to understand. 

“The vetos may be of the simplest character, but however 
simple and however few, a complex result must arise from 
their grouping under the conditions. Given the alphabet, 
we get a literature. There you have the doctrine of Necessity 
in a nutshell.” 

Philip turned his small eyes languidly on the speaker. 

“ And — what then ?” he asked. 

“ What then ?” echoed the philosopher. “ Having got rid 
of misleading conceptions, philosophy migrates to new pas- 
tures. We no longeF speak of life as if it were some outside 
mysterious influence that pours into dead matter and trans- 
forms it ; we believe that there is no such independent im- 
ponderable, but only different states of matter arising from 
forces within itself.” 

“ And anything that goes on outside the pale of our cogni- 
tion ?” asked Philip, slightly raising his eyebrows. 

“ Such things,” said Harry, “are, philosophically speaking, 
not ‘ in Society ; ’ one doesn’t hear about them ; one doesn’t 
call upon them ; they are not in our set. ” 

The philosopher seemed a little puzzled. He smiled a mel- 
ancholy smile and looked pensively out to sea. 

Philip was still engaged in sending small stones spinning 
into the void, and he had gradually worked himseli so far 
towards the outer edge that half his body appeared to be 
overhanging the sea, which lay immediately below the 
window. 

“ I say, you’ll very soon be ‘ not in our set ’ yourself if you 
don’t look out,” said Harry. 

Philip laughed, and swung himself round, so that now he 


88 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL, 


was sitting with both legs over the farther edge of the em- 
brasure. He seemed to revel in the danger. Viola turned 
cold as she saw him lean half out of the window, in the elfort 
to descry a ship on the horizon. 

‘‘Instantaneous death is not, strictly speaking, a calamity,” 
observed the irrepressible philosopher; “the mind has no 
time to dwell upon the idea of its own destruction. Pain, 
mental or physical, is the sole misfortune that can befall a 
man, and this is incompatible with unconsciousness.” 

“ Well, then, Foster, suppose you give me the pleasure of 
treating you as I treat these peboles ; let me flick you dexter- 
ously into the ocean. ” 

But the philosopher laughed knowingly, and shook his 
head. 

“ Eeason is not our mling attribute,” he said; “ sentiment 
is the most powerful principle in the human breast.” 

“Come out, will you ?” cried Philip, apostrophising an ob- 
stinate pebble which had wedged itself tightly in between two 
blocks of stone. ‘‘I will have you out; the thing imagines it 
is going to beat me !” 

“ Have you never been beaten ?” inquired Harry. 

“No; nor do I intend to be, by man, woman, or child,” 
Philip answered, with a screw of the lips as he at last forced 
out and flung away the refractory pebble. 

His manner gave one the impression that so he would treat 
whomsoever should resist him. The mixture of indolence and 
invincible determination that he displayed was very singular. 

Caleb Foster expressed an idea that was passing through 
Harry’s mind when he said, disjointedly, as if thinking aloud, 
“ Given with this temperament, irresponsible power, absence 
of control— lessons of life artificially withheld— result, a 
Nero.” 

“ Are you calling me a Nero ?” asked Philip, with a laugh. 
“ Nothing like philosophy for frankness. What’s my sin ?” 

“ Ask your conscience,” returned Caleb. “ / know of none.” 

“ My conscience has struck work,” said Philip; “I gave it 
so much to do that I tired it out.” 

Caleb ^ave a thoughtful nod. 

‘ ‘ I believe that it may indeed become obscured by over- 
exercise,” he said. “The simple human impulses of truth 
and justice are, after all, our surest guides. Too subtle 
thinking on moral questions makes egoists and straw -splitters 
of us, and hands us over to the mercies of our fallible judg- 
ments.” 

“And why not?” asked Harry. He insisted — much to 
Viola’s consternation — that goodness and intelligence are 
really identical, and that one of tliem could never lag far 
behind the other. 

“ Granted their close affinity,” said Caleb, “ but it does not 
follow that the most reasonable man is also the most moral. 
Morality is not evolved afresh in each human being by a 


THE CUSTODIAN OF THE CASTLE. 


39 


logical exercise. It is the result of a long antecedent process 
of experiment which has embedded itself, so to speak, in the 
human constitution, so that morality is, as it were, reason 
pres3rved ” 

‘ ‘ Apt to have a had flavour, and to he sometimes poisonous 
from the action of the tins,” added Harry. 

The philosopher thought over this for some seconds, with 
liis head very much on one side. 

Philip Dendraith had another definition of morality. 

“I speak from observation,” he said, “and from that 1 
gather that it is immoral to he found out. I can conceive no 
other immorality.” 

“HaUoa! here’s our friend the gentlemanly Poodle I” ex- 
claimed Harry, as that intelligent animal appeared in sight. 

Bill Dawkins paused in his headlong career, and stood star- 
ing at the group. 

“I wonder who your master is,” Harry continued, re- 
doubling his blandishments; “perhaps the name is on the 
collar. Hi, good dog, rats! P' 

Bill Dawkins pricked up his ears and bore down upon the 
indicated spot. 

The philosopher found that his highly developed forehead 
had become the destination of a lively shower of earth and 
small stones, which the dog was grubbing up, snifiing and 
snorting excitedly. Caleb quietly removed his forehead out 
of range and stood looking on. 

‘ ‘ If the beast hasn’t almost upset the Philosopher’s Stone !” 
exclaimed Harry. 

Caleb opened his mouth to speak. 

“We might find in these efilorts a type of the Eealist’s 
struggle to lay hold of the abstraction in his own mind, an 
eidolon which he translates into objective existence,” he ob- 
served, calmly and persistently philosophic. But the young 
men were too much occupied in cheering on the deluded 
poodle to heed him. 

“ No name on the coUar,” said Harry; “ but he’s clearly a 
highly connected animal -well bred too; and he’s beginning 
to see it’s a hoax; he’s giving it up in despair and registering 
cynical vows not to the credit of mankind.” 

“ Come here, animal,” said Philip. 

Bill Dawkins’ nostrils moved inquiringly. 

“ I want some amusement, and I think you can give it me.” 

As Bill Dawkins did not obey, Philip laid hold of him by 
the ear and compelled him to come ; much to the creature’s 
indignation. 

Bringing a piece of string from his pocket, the young man 
then proceeded to tie the dog’s legs together diagonally ; his 
right front paw to his left hind paw, and the other two in the 
same way. 

The result, when he was set down again, was a series of 
agitated stumbles and a state of mind simply frantic. The 


40 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


sight seemed to afford Philip much joy ; he looked on and 
laughed at the creature’s struggles. 

“ This is a subtle and penetoting form of wit,” Harry re- 
marked, with a frown; but Caleb Foster seemed amused at 
the animal’s embarrassment, good matured man though he 
was. 

“He’d make a good target,” remarked Philip, taking aim at 
the poodle with a small stone, and following up with a second 
and a third in rapid succession. The last one hurt ; for the 
dog gave a loud yelp, and Harry, flushing up, was springing 
to the rescue, when an angry cry rang through the air, and 
almost at the same instant the dog was encircled by a pair of 
small arms, and hugged and caressed as even that well- 
appreciated poodle had never been caressed in his life before. 

“ By the Lord Harry, it’s the little Sedley girl!” 


CHAPTER VH. 

MURDER. 

Frantically Viola tore off the string that bound the 
creature’s legs, and then turning fiercely to Philip, she said, 
with quivering lips, white with passion, “How dare you ill- 
treat my dog ? How dare you ? You are a cruel wicked man, 
and I hate you I” 

“Well done, little virago,” said Philip, laughing. “Now 
tell one who has your welfare sincerely at heart, how did you 
get here all by yourself ?” 

“ Why did you throw stones at Bill Dawkins ? You are 
cruel — you are wicked; I think you are Satan.” 

There was a shout of laughter at this. 

“Well, I have had two good compliments this afternoon!” 
Philip exclaimed, still laughing; “to be called Nero and 
Satan within half-an-hour is something to remember oneself 
by !” 

“Poor, good dog! poor, poor dog!” cried the child, almost 
in tears, and stooping again to caress him. 

“ Your dog is not much hurt, little girl,” said Harry, kind- 
ly. “ See, he is wagging his tail quite cheerfully; he knows 
it is all right.” 

“He always forgives very easily,” said Viola. “ I wouldn’t 
forgive that man if I were he.” 

“Now, do you know, little lady, I believe you are mistaken,” 
said Philip, with one of his brilliant smiles; “ I wouldn’t mind 
betting that the time will come when you would forgive me 


MURDER. 


41 


/ar greater offences than this one against your poodle. You 
belong to the forgiving sex, you know.” 

“ No, I don’t,” cried Viola, fiercely. 

“Do you mean to say, for instance, that you haven’t for- 
given me for kissing you that afternoon at our house ? You 
were very angry at the time, but you are not angry about 
that now — are you ?” 

Viola’s face was a study. 

Philip threw back his head and laughed at the look of help- 
less passion which made the child almost speechless. 

“There is some mettle here,” he said, addressing the 
others ; “a highly spirited young animal who would be worth 
breaking in when she grows up. Women of this type love 
their masters.” 

“1 wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Harry, as he bent 
down and tried to soothe the excited little' girl, and to find 
out how she came to be here alone. 

“Life,” said the philosopher, with amiable intent, “is be- 
set with inevitable disturbances of the mental equilibrium 
(perhaps the child does not understand the word equilibrium 
— let us therefore substitute balance). These, however, it is 

possible to reduce to a minimum by a habit of mind which 

but I fear I fail to impress our little friend. No matter. In 
early years the human being is the creature of impulse ; rea- 
son has not yet ascende i the throne. We must be content 
to be the sport of circumstances. Are you content to be the 
sport of circumstances, my good child ?” 

Viola looked shy and shook her head. 

“ The little woman is a treasure!” exclaimed Philip, laugh- 
ing. “Now I want to make you say you forgive me,” he 
went on, unexpectedly stooping down and lifting her into the 
window embrasure, where he established himself in his old 
perilous position with Viola struggling in his arms. 

“ I say, do look out,” cried Harry. “ A mere breath would 
send you into the sea.” 

Philip treated these warnings with contempt. 

“Now, listen to me,” he said quietly, as he quelled the 
child’s struggles with a clever movement; “it is of no 
use fighting, for I am stronger than you; but I don’t want to 
make you stay here against your will ; I want you to stay 
willingly, and to say that you forgive me, and that you like 
me very much.” 

“ I hate you,” said Viola. 

“Oh! no you don’t,” cried Philip in a low, soft voice; 
“you can’t hate a poor man who thinks you a nice, dear 
little girl, and wants you to be fond of him. That wouldn’t 
be fair, would it ?” 

Viola was silent: he had struck the right chord. 

“ If I had known the dog belonged to you, I wouldn’t have 
tied his legs together or thrown stones at him;— (though they 


42 


THE wma OF AZRAEL. 


were very little stones, you know). Now won’t you forgive 
me if I say I am very sorry ?” 

“ No, ” said Viola. ‘ ‘ Let me go. ” 

Philip gave a deep sigh. 

‘‘You pain me very much, ” he said. “What can a man 
do when he has otfended but say he is sorry and will never 
do it again ?” 

“ Let me go,” repeated Viola. 

“I say, Philip, you are teasing the child,” remonstrated 
Harry. 

“No, I’m not; I want to make amends to her, and see if 
she has a nice disposition.” 

‘‘You want to experiment with your diabolical power,” 
muttered Harry. 

“Now, Viola,” Philip continued (his voice was very sooth- 
ing and caressing), “you see how repentant I am, and how 
anxious I am to be forgiven ; I want you just to say these 
words after me, and to give me a kiss of pardon when you 
have said them. These are the words; ‘Philip Dendraith, 
though you have behaved very badly, yet because you are 
fond of me, and repent, I forgive you, and I kiss you in sign 
of pardon.’ When you have said that I will release you.” 

“ I won’t say it,” said Viola. 

“ Oh ! but I am sure you will. You know that it would be 
right and just to say it. I know your mother teaches you to 
be forgiving, and that you will forgive. See, I am so sure of 
it that I open my arms and leave you at liberty.” 

He released her, and waited with a smile to see what she 
would do. She stared at him in a dazed manner. His argu- 
ments had bewildered her; she felt that she had been trusted, 
and that it would be dishonourable to betray the trust; and 
yet— and yet the man had no right to interfere with her lib- 
erty. There was a vague sense that his seemingly generous 
confidence had something fraudulent in it, though it placed 
him in a becoming light. 

A look of pain crossed the child’s face, from her certainty 
of this, and her utter inability to put it into words. Few 
people know how cruelly children often suffer from this in- 
equality in their powers of apprehension and expression. 

‘ ‘ It’s not fair, ” was all she could say. However, Philip had 
so far gained his point that she did not take advantage of her 
freedom to leave her toi-mentor ; she only shrank away as far 
as she could, and sat with her head pressed against the stone- 
work of the window. 

The partial victory made Philip’s eyes glisten ; it was deli- 
cious to him to use liis power, and he already regarded Viola 
as an advei’sarjr worthy of his mettle, child though she was. 

Harry, thinking she was reconciled to the situation, aban- 
doned thoughts of interference, and Philip, with much tact, 
forebore to press his advantage. He began to talk about im- 
personal matters, cleverly spinning stories on the slenderest 


MURDER. 


43 


thread of suggestion, and so much did ^he interest the child 
that she forgot who was speaking, and forgetting that, forgot 
to be angry. 

Philip smiled, and glanced over his shoulder at his com- 
panions. 

“ The forgiving sex !” 

“ Tell me some more, please,” said Viola, in a dreamy tone. 

“ Once upon a time,” Philip went on obediently, “ this old 
* castle stood six miles inland, before the sea bit its way up to 
it and bombarded it as it is doing now. At that time it was 
one of the finest castles in England, and the barons who 
owned it were very powerful. I fear they were rather a 
quarrelsome lot; we hear of them having endless rows with 
other nobles, and one of them, not content with his own wife, 
must needs take away the wife of one of his neighbours ; and 
the neighbour was annoyed about it, and challenged him to 
single combat, and they hacked at one another for a \yhole 
afternoon in plate armour (electro-plate, you know, not real 
silver). It was a dreadful scene.” 

“ And what happened ?” asked Viola breathlessly. 

“Well, the other baron ran his lance through Lord Den- 
draith’s arm, and he said, ‘A hit, a very palpable hit;’ but 
the baron, putting his lance in his left hand, came on again, 
swearing diabolically, and this time he unhorsed my ancestor 
and smashed in his helmet, and then he gave him a deep 
wound in the leg, and soon the tilting ring was swimming in 
gore, for the two men were both wounded. The bystanders 
noticed that it was very blue in colour, the barons being both 
of noble blood. But in spite of their wounds they swore they 
wouldn’t give in, and up sprang Lord Dendraith onto his 
horse, and up sprang Lord Burleigh onto his, and the clang 
of their armour when the lances came down upon it could be 
heard within a radius of fifteen miles. The people at that 
distance took it for the sound of threshing flails in the vicin- 
ity, and were not interested.” 

“And then?” said Viola. 

“Then,” continued Philip, “the battle raged so fiercely 
that even the fierce members of the Dendraith family Avere 
seen to tremble ; the plumes of their helmets actually quiv- 
ered, and a murmur of rustling feathers ran round the crowded 
ring when for a second there was a pause in the combat. 
The blows were falling so fast now that there was nothing to 
be seen but a sort of blurr in the air in the path of the flash- 
ing lances.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Viola, horror-stricken. 

“‘By heaven! I swear I will fight thee to the death!’” 
roared Lord Burleigh. 

“ ‘The devil be my witness, I will follow thee to hell!’” 
bellowed Lord Dendraith. 

“ And so they fell to with fresh vigour. The two men were 
very equally matched, and when one inflicted a wound, the 


44 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


other retaliated with an exactly corresponding injury ; when 
one chopped off a particular portion of his enemy, the other 
chose the same portion and lopped it off likewise; so that they 
worked each other gradually down, and it seemed as if they 
were going to finish the fight with the mere fragmentary re- 
mains of what were once exceedingly fine men. 

“When at last each had driven his lance into the other’s 
right lung and unhorsed him, the bystanders interfered, and 
suggested that the noble barons having already lost several 
hmbs, besides cracking their skulls, and mutually causing 
their teeth (with a few not- worth-mentioning exceptions) to 
strew the ground, they might consider their honour satisfied ; 
especially as their present plight rendered further fighting 
highly unsuitable 

“But the furious barons would not hear of it; they de- 
clared they had never felt better in their lives, and with a 
violent effort they dragged themselves to their feet (they had 
now only two between them), and each with his dying breath 
dealt the other a death-blow. And that was the famous 
combat between Lord Dendraith and the Lord of Burleigh,” 
concluded Philip. 

“ Is that the end ?” asked Viola. 

“Yes; though I may mention that the widows shortly 
afterwards married again.” 

Viola remained silent and thoughtful; the tragic ending of 
the tale weighed upon her. 

“One can see where you get your absurd obstinacy from,” 
said Harry. 

“I don’t own to being obstinate,” returned Philip; “ob- 
stinacy is the dullard’s quality, I have tried to avoid it, as 
I fancy it is in the Dendraith race.” 

“Who were anything but dullards,” Caleb threw in. 

Philip bowed. 

“They improved towards later times,” he said. “Some 
foreign blood came into the family, and, rather curiously, it 
developed on a substratum of the "old stubborn, stupid spirit 
a subtlety almost Itahan. Andrew, who repaired part of the 
castle and built the house, combined these qualities very 
strikingly. He murdered his sweetheart, you know, little 
lady,” Philip went on, seeing that Viola was interested, “ be- 
cause he found that she liked another man better than she 
liked him, and no Dendraith could stand that. He offered 
her his love, and she coquetted a little with him for a time 
and then” 

“What is coquetted ?” asked Viola. 

“ Well, she wouldn’t say plainly whether she liked him or 
not ; but he swore that she should be his or no other man 
should have her. Unluckily, he found she had a more fav- 
oured lover, and then and there, without foresight or con- 
sideration, he stabbed her. The other more cunning side of 
his character showed itself afterwards in his clever manner 


MURDER. 


45 


of eluding detection for years. The truth never came out till 
he told it himself on his deathbed. It is said, of course, that 
the ghost of the murdered lady haunts the castle to this day.” 

“Is this your castle?” asked Viola, after a long and 
thoughtful pause. 

“No, it is my father’s at present; but he is going to give it 
me as soon as I marry. It used to be a fine place, and it can 
be made so again. So you see, Viola, I am worth making 
friends with. Perhaps when you grow up, if you are good, I 
will marry you ! What do you say to that ?” 

“ I don’t want to marry you,” said Viola, her old resisting 
spirit roused again. 

“ What! not after all the nice stories I have told you ?” 

“No,” said Viola curtly. 

“Not to become mistress of the castle, and to have that big 
house and garden for your own, and some beautiful diamonds 
that I would give you ?” 

She shook her head. 

“This is not like the sex,” Phihp observed, with a laugh. 
“ Think how nice it. would be to have a big house all to your- 
self, and diamonds, and a husband who will tell you stories 
whenever you asked him 1 The luxury of that can scarcely 
be overrated. You had better think seriously of this matter 
before you refuse me ; there will be a gi’eat many others only 
too delighted to have a chance of all these good things.” 

“ Husbands with a turn for narrative being proverbially 
popular,” Harry threw in. 

“ And husbands with a turn for diamonds still more so,” 
Philip added. “I am sure that Viola will see these things 
more wisely as she grows older. So confident am I of it, in 
fact, that I intend to regard her from this time forth as my 
little betrothed ” 

Philip laughed at the fiash that come into the child’s eyes. 
Presently he went on in a coaxing tone: “Now, Viola, you 
are going to be nice and kind, and say you are fond of me, 
and give me a kiss, aren’t you ? Remember, I let you go free 
when I might easily have kept you prisoner all this time.” 

“ I think your arms would have ached by now if you had,'’ 
observed Caleb, with a chuckle. 

Viola had drawn herself together as if preparmg to spring 
to the ground and escape, but Philip quickly frustrated her 
design. She was still untrammelled, but a strong arm across 
the window barred the egress. 

She tried to push it away, but she might as well have tried 
to break down the Norman stonework against which the 
large weil-fornied hand was resting. She beat it angrily with 
her clenched fists. 

“Oh 1 that’s naughty I” cried Philip, much amused. “ Sup- 
posing you were to hurt me ?” 

“ I want to!” 


46 THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 

Viola continued to strike the hand and arm with all her 
might. 

“Now, you know, there is but one cure for this sort of 
thing,” said Philip, with a brilliant smile. 

Eelaxing the tension of the obnoxious arm, he placed it 
round the child, and drew her towards him, saying that he 
must give her a mixed kiss, combining the ideas of punish- 
ment and betrothal. 

“Upon my word, you will be over that precipice if you 
don’t look out !” warned Harry again. 

“Pooh! I’m all right,” said Philip impatiently. 

Expecting Viola to struggle away from his clutches, he had 
adjusted his attitude accordingly, but instead of this she 
flung herself wildly upon him with rage-begotten strengtli, 
and before he could recover from the shock, in his dangerous 
position, he had completely lost his balance. The whole thing 
was over in an instant. 

“Good God 1 he’s gone !” exclaimed Harry, springing into 
the embrasure with one bound, followed by Caleb. 

The two men looked in each other’s white faces for a second 
of awful silence. 

Harry leant back against the stonework with a breathless 
groan, drawing his hand across his brow. 

He was on the very spot where, a second ago, Philip had 
been lolling in his indolent way, defying the danger that lay 
within an inch of him, the danger that Harry had warned him 
against in vain. 

The unceasing lapping of the waves on the cliff below made 
the moment absolutely ghastly. It was like the licking of the 
lips of some animal that has just devoured his victim. 

“What’s to be done ? He canH be killed !” cried Harry at 
last. It seemed incredible. Caleb laid his arm round the 
young man’s shoulders, and together they peered over the 
verge. 

VTiite and pitiless the cliff dropped dizzily to the sea. 
Philip was an athlete and a splendid climber, out who could 
keep footing on such a palace s this ? 

The only hopeful sign was, that they saw nothing of the 
body. The cliff was not perpendicular; that gave another 
faint consolation. 

They had forgotten all about Viola in the horror of the mo- 
ment, but the sound of low, passionate sobbing recalled her 
presence to their minds. 

“ I have killed him; I have killed him,” she moaned in ac- 
cents so utterly heart-broken, that they sent a horrified thrill 
through the hearts of her companions. There was something 
so grief-experienced in the despair of the child; almost it 
seemed as if she were bewailing the inevitable accomplish- 
ment of a foreknown doom. She might have been the heroine 
of some Greek tragedy crying “af aj"” at the fulfilment of 
her fate. 


MURDER, 


47 


Harry tried to soothe her. 

“Oh! find him, find him: he is not killed; he cannot be 
killed,” she wailed. “Come and find him; come and find 
him.” 

Feverishly she took Harry’s hand to lead him away. 

“ It was my fault; I have killed him. Come— come !” 

In pursuit of a most forlorn hope the three set out together, 
under Caleb’s guidance, he being familiar with the cliffs, and 
able to lead them by comparatively easy descents to the foot 
of the rock. 

Viola was most anxious to go all the way, but Harry told 
her that she would delay him and Caleb in their search, and 
this alone induced her to stay and watch from above. 

Rough steps had been hewn out of the rock in places, to 
enable people living in the castle to get down easily to the sea, 
and these now proved of immense value, though at best 
it was dangerous v\^ork, and very exciting. The slightest slip 
would have been punished with death. Now and then they 
had to take little jumps from ledge to ledge, or to crawl on 
their hands and knees, clinging for dear life. They stood still 
now and then to rest, and to shout at the top of their voices 
in case Philip, by some miracle, had been saved and might 
answer them. But no answer came. 

“It does not seem to me quite impossible that he should 
have broken his fall by means of some of these inequalities in 
the side of the cliff. "The absolute smoothness vanishes on 
closer acquaintance.” 

It was Caleb who spoke. 

“And there is an inclined plane here,” Harry observed; 
“steep, indeed, but one’s momentum would be checked in 
striking it.” 

“ Certainly ; and Philip is the man to have that good fortune, 
if any man could have it; and to take advantage of it.” 

Cheering themselves with these suppositions, they slowly 
continued their journey. 

The sun was sinking, and sent a fiery line of gold across the 
water, dazzling them with its bj'illiancy, and making their 
difficult task more difficult still. The gulls were wheeling 
overhead, congregating and settling on the waters with 
beautiful airy movements. It made the two men feel giddy 
to look at them. Glancing towards the fatal window, whither 
Viola had returned to sit tremulously watching, it struck 
Harry that if he and Caleb were both to be killed, the child 
would be without a protector. 

Standing on a narrow ledge of rock, he shouted up to her, 
“Throw down a small stone if you hear me.”- 

A pebble ca me straight as a plummet-line from the window, 
striking the inclined plane, bounding up and taking a curved 
path thence into the sea, which it entered with a faint little 
plumn. 

“If we should not return, go at once to the coastguard sta- 


48 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


tion — ^it’s not two hundred yards off ; tell them who you are ; 
ask them to take care of you for the night, and send a mes- 
sage to your home that you are safe. Another stone if you 
hear; two stones if only partly.” 

Two stones came down and behaved in the same manner as 
before. The advice was repeated, and then a single stone fell 
in token of understanding. 

With an encouraging wave of the hand, Harry pursued his 
perilous journey. 

From above, the cliff had appeared smooth and uneventful, 
but now a thousand secrets betrayed themselves. 

Caleb was working his way towards a part of the rock that 
lay at present out of sight below the inchned plane. Struck 
by the action of the pebble, it had occurred to him that Philip’s 
body might have followed the same route, but being heavier 
in comparison with its momentum, would not have described 
a parabola (as the philosopher put it to himself), but would 
have fallen or slipped onto the surface immediately below. 
If here, by some good luck, there were a resting-place, hope 
still remained. 

This idea Caleb communicated to Harry, who checked an 
impulse to pass on the encouraging view to Viola. It was a 
pity, he thought, to rouse her hope on such slender grounds. 

The search had by this time insensibly changed its character 
in Harry’s eyes. He now regarded it partly as it affected 
the mind of the little girl whose passionate action had caused 
the mishap. Her remorse and horror had been terrible to 
witness, and Harry felt that if Philip proved to be really 
killed the shock to her might prove to be very dangerous in- 
deed. Her conduct that afternoon had showed him of what 
sort of stuff she was made. 

This was a nature, like a deep sea, capable of profound dis- 
turbances. 

At that time Harry had not learnt that the nature with 
material for such storms has generally within it also a strange 
cohesion and power of endurance which enable it to stand to- 
gether through crises that would seem more than enough to 
shatter the most firmly knit intellect. 

“ Look out,” Caleb called back to his companion, as a stone 
rolled down the slope; “ you are coming to an awkward place 
now.” 

Harry found that he stood on a projecting ledge of rock, 
where below him for about twenty feet there was no further 
resting-place; to the left rose a buttress of rock; to the right 
the ledge shelved away to nothing, the slight foothold dwind- 
ling till it disappeared altogether. 

‘‘ How in the name of wonder did you get past here ?” he 
called to Caleb. 

“I climbed up a little, and got round the projection on the 
other side ; but the bit of stone I got up by gave way under 


MUBDER. 


49 


my feet, and I fear you will have to stay where you are for 
the present.” 

As this fact was borne in upon him, Harry cursed his ill 
luck. He looked about and around in every direction for a 
means of escape, but there was absolutely none. The loos- 
ened flint that had enabled Caleb to climb the escarpment lay 
resting on the slope of rock below him twenty feet. Now 
nothing but a rope from above could enable a man to scale 
the acclivity. The prisoner looked anxiously at the sun. 
Nothing could be done when the darkness came on, and if it 
should overtake him he would have to stay here all night, 
unable to lie down, scarcely able to turn,— it was not a pleas- 
ant prospect. 

“ I can’t possibly get out of this position without help,” be 
called out; “how are you getting on ?” 

“ I am working my way to the place I told you of; I shall 
soon be there. If I find him, I will shout to you ; and we can 
consult as to what is to be done. Perhaps the little girl could 
find you a rope somewhere about the house. There is one in 
my kitchen, -^o what you can as to that; meanwhile I will 
not forget you. The sun won’t be down for another two hours 
yet.” 

With these words Caleb passed entirely out of sight, and 
Harry was left to solitude and his own reflections. 

He shouted up to Viola above, and was answered by a tiny 
pebble. 

“ We want a rope,” he called up. “Will you go to Caleb’s 
house and bring one that you will find there in the kitchen ? 
His house is in the castle keep; it has been repaired and made 
into a dwelling for him ; it stands at the end of the castle, 
right out to sea— you can’t mistake it.” 

“1 understand,” was signalled back in pebble language. 

Harry knew that the child’s anxious misery would be re- 
lieved by action, and, besides, her help might be very valu- 
able. The thought of her strange and terrible situation at 
this moment recurred to him with increasing insistence. 
Philip Dendraith had been to Harry only a newly made ac- 
quaintance, and his accident affected him little more than if 
it had befallen a total stranger. There was no personal grief 
in his heart, and he was therefore free to speculate on the 
feelings of one more tragically interested. He was beginning 
to feel anxious about her, for he doubted if she could be per- 
suaded to leave the spot until Philip had been found, and 
there was the sun racing towards the horizon, and still Caleb 
gave no sign. 

Everything depended upon him. 

Viola found the rope, and as soon as she returned Harry 
directed her to go to the coastguard station for help. She was 
to ask to have the news forwarded to the Manor-House and 
Upton Court, and also to bring some brandy. 

Pebbles came down in token of understanding, and the little 


50 


THE WINQ OF AZRAEL. 


figure disappeared from the window. Harry found himself 
alone in the hushful twilight. 

It seemed as if Nature were doing her utmost to soothe his 
anxieties and whisper messages of peace in his ears. Long 
lines of cloud and sea swept serenely from coast to distant 
coast; the sunset lights were rich and glowing, promising a 
glorious morrow ; while at the cliff’s foot the glassy waters 
lapped with a soft sea-sound that might have lulled the frenzy 
of a madman’s dream. 

Harry felt the influences steal into his heart, and as the 
glow grew fainter in the sky, and the cold evening light — 
almost electric in its still lustre — crept over the waters, he 
realised with a start that the last quarter of an hour had 
been one of the happiest of his life. Full of emotions, of de- 
licious insights and longings, it had brought to liim, upon the 
inflowing tide of heightened consciousness, a thrilling sense 
of the glory and the sweetness of existence. 

Then for the first time he fully realised the tragedy that 
had occurred that afternoon; a strong fresh life hurried per- 
haps into dark unconsciousness, with all its infinite possibili- 
ties blotted out. 

Away “pale Philosophy,” which would persuade the life- 
intoxicated soul that death is no calamity ! 

Death is the great calamity towards which our sins and 
our errors are for ever thrusting us. Life— full, rich, wide- 
spreading life — the one great universal Good, in whose deli- 
cious ocean all right and healthy things in heaven and earth 
are steeped till the sweet waters steal in and fill them through 
and through. Such was Harry Lancaster’s x resent creed. 

A shout broke the stillness. 

“ I have found him !” 

“ Alive ?” 

“Don’t know; he does not move; — I am trying experi- 
ments.” 

It was maddening to be imprisoned here when help was 
so much needed ! Harr^^ for the hundredth time, tried to 
persuade himself that he could escape by some deed of 
daring, but had to own that none but suicidal attempts vrere 
possible. 

He told Caleb that Viola must shortly return with help. 

“ That’s lucky !” shouted the philosopher. “ I believe he is 
alive, though he has been severely knocked about; he is 
stunned, but he seems to me to breathe still faintly. It is an 
absolute miracle ! I wish I had some brandy. V^'hen the lit- 
tle girl returns with help” 

“Ah ! well done, well done ! Here she is !— and the coast- 
guardsman himself to the rescue.” 

“ Thank Heaven !” exclaimed Caleb. “ Come to me as soon 
as you can. No time to be lost.” 

Harry shouted up to the rran to lot down the brandy and to 
attach the rope firmly somewhere above. In a few seconds 


MURDER. 


51 


he had the joy of seeing a quaint-looking flask shding down 
the cliff towards him. Quickly detaching the flask, he put it 
in his pocket, and seizing the rope, swung himself down 
obliquely, the coast^ariJsman moving it from time to time 
along the castle wall. Harry had to guide himself by Caleb’s 
voice, and it was not long before he had scrambled almost 
to the foot of the cliff, where he found Caleb beside the body 
of Philip, trying by every means in his power to restore him 
to life. 

Harry sprang to his side and handed him the brandy with- 
out a word. 

“ This may save him,” said Caleb, as he raised the body in 
his arms and administered the life-draught. “ Now, there is 
no time to lose; he must be moved to my house at once, while 
he is unconscious; after he revives the pain would retard us. 
His left leg is broken, I fear, and I dare say that is not the 
only injury, poor fellow ! You take his feet, I’ll take his 
head, and forward.” 

Caleb, giving the word of command, led the way to the 
beach, the two men carrying the burden for about a quarter 
of a mile over the shingle, and then up by a rough but 
moderately easy ascent, at a point where the cliffs were less 
steep and less lofty. They had perforce to pause for breath 
now and again, and then the dose of brandy was repeated. 
At the second pause a faint movement, showing that Philip 
was still alive, was the signal for moving on at a still more 
rapid rate. 

The distance seemed very great, for Philip was no light 
burden, and their wishes so far outstripped their powers that 
progress appeared slow indeed. 

“What’s that?” said Harry, peering through the dusk. 
“ I think I see two figures coming towards us.” 

He was right. A few minutes brought them face to face 
with Viola and the good-natured coastguardsman, who had 
guessed what the others had done, and came on to lend a 
hand. He turned Hai-ry off altogether, and insisted on tak- 
ing his place till he had “got the wind into his sails again,” 
after which Caleb was subjected to a similar process of nauti- 
cal recuperation. 

Before Viola’s white lips had time to frame the question, 
“ Is he alive ?” Harry had communicated the fact of Philip’s 
almost miraculous escape. 

The blood ebbed away from her face for a moment, and 
then came rushing back again dn a great tumult. She said 
not a word, but kept close beside Philip, watching his still face 
intently. 

“Did you get a message sent to your mother?” Harry 
inquired. 

“Yes; I said I was quite safe, and that you had told me 
what to do, and were taking care of me. Also I asked her to 
send on the news, as you told me.” 


52 


TEE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


Caleb’s hermitage at the far end of the castle was a strange, 
romantic little dwelling, patched together by his own hands 
out of the ruined keep; the arrow-holes having been widened 
into windows, while the old spiral staircase still served the 
ingenious philosopher as a means of reaching his little bed- 
room, where every night he was lulled to sleep by the cease- 
less music of the waves. From this haven of repose the 
mattress and blankets were brought down to the kitchen, 
where a good fire was burning; Philip was laid upon the bed 
close to the hearth, and then Caleb proceeded to apply all his 
wide and accurate knowledge to the task before him. 

While engaged in arduous efforts to restore the lost anima- 
tion, he was giving explicit directions to his colleagues to as- 
sist him, and to collect various things that he required in order 
to set the broken leg and bind up the wounds. 

“ He is badly hurt,” said Caleb; “but if he lives he will be 
none the worse for this, if I am not much mistaken.” 

“Oh, he’ll live all right,” said the coastward sman, seeing, 
with singular quickness, that Viola turned white at the phil- 
osopher’s “if.” “ There ! I saw a quiver of the eyelid. You 

are breathing your own life into him, Mr. Foster ; — he must 
come round. Don’t you never be afraid, little ’un,” he added, 
patting Viola on the head; “the young gentleman’ll live to 
be a sorrow to his parents for many a long day yet ! You 
mark my words.” 

The coastguardsman’s prophecy proved true. Caleb, with 
the assistance of his companions, did, after much effort, suc- 
ceed in fanning the dim little spark of life to a feeble but cer- 
tain flame. 

Philip opened his eyes, gave a sigh, and sank heavily back 
on the pillows. 

“ Now, the leg must be set,” said Caleb. “ Happily I know 
how to do it. Now I want you all to be very intelligent,” he 
said, as he bent down to perform the operation of setting the 
broken leg; “upon my skill and the general good manage- 
ment of the affair hangs the issue of a life-time. If I do not 
set it with perfect accuracy one leg will be shorter than the 
other.” 

There was an anxious silence in the little room as the 
philosopher, with skilful, decided movements set about the 
momentous task. 

Philip was by this time vaguely conscious of his surround- 
ings, but too weak to ask any questions. Perhaps his rapid 
mind had taken in the facts without assistance. He very 
much surprised the bystanders by saying in a weak but clear 
voice, “ Are you going to set my* leg, Foster ?” 

“ Yes; we can’t wait for a doctor. I have done it before- 
trust to me.’’ 

Almost as he spoke he wrenched the parts into position, and 
Philip gave a groan. 


MUMDER, 


53 


‘ ‘ The worst is over, ” Caleb said cheerfully ; ‘ ‘ braqe yourself 
for another wrench, and then the deed is done.” 

This time there was only a laboured drawing of the breath 
from the patient, and then the limb was bound to a bar of 
wood by means of bands made, on the spur of the moment, 
out of cloths and towels, and the patient was told that for the 
present he would be left in peace. 

Very quietly and rapidly Caleb made arrangements for 
the night. The coastguardsman was thanked for his services 
and assured that no further help was needed. Caleb and 
Harry would take turns in the night-watch, while Viola could 
go to bed in the room sanctified by philosophic slumbers, and 
dream that she was a mermaid playing with her own tail in 
depth of the green ocean. 

So said Harry, recovering already from the afternoon’s 
strain of anxiety and fatigue. 

Caleb silenced at once Viola’s pleading to be allowed to sit 
up and watch the patient. Not to-night, he said, or she would 
be another patient on his hands by the morrow, and then how 
could Philip be properly nursed ? 

“Say good -night to him, little one,” said Caleb kindly, 
“and then I’ll take you upstairs.” 

The child went up to the bed and knelt down by Philip’s 
side. In spite of manful efforts the tears welled up into her 
eyes, but she made no sound. She seemed to be struggling 
with herself ; her lips moved. Then suddenly she bent for- 
ward, uttering Philip’s name, and as she bade him good-night 
she kissed him on the brow. 

“ I am so sorry ; I am so very sorry !” 

Philip, weak as. he was, gave a slight laugh. The after- 
noon’s event, nearly fatal though it had been, amused him. 

“ You almost did for me, little one,” he said, “ but it’s all 
right, and you didn’t mean to do it, you know.” 

Viola turned abruptly away from" the bedside, and Caleb, 
taking her in his arms, carried her tenderly up the dark 
winding staircase to the strange little room, through whose 
lozenge-paned windows a faint moon was tracing diamond 
patterns on the bare fioor. 

“You won’t be frightened here, will you ?” Caleb asked. 
“ Mr. Lancaster and I are in the room below, and should hear 
you in a minute if you called.” 

“I shall not be frightened,” said Viola. 

Yet a thrill of terror went through her when Caleb, Having 
done all he could think of for her comfort, shut the door and 
left her alone. 

The excitement of the day had unstrung her nerves, and 
the strangeness of the place filled lier with alarm. 

But it was not this that most disturbed her. There was a 
terrible soipething in her consciousness that filled all things 
with horror; something that had made the very sunshine 
seem hateful, and now haunted, the darkness with faces so 


54 THE WINO OF AZRAEL. 

hideous in their mockery that the child grew well-nigh dis- 
traught. 

“ We see; we know,” said the faces, and then they laughed, 
till Viola, falling on her knees beside the window, prayed as 
she had never prayed in her life before. But the face of the 
earth was changed to her since that afternoon ; no prayer, no 
forgiveness, could restore to the sea and sky their friendly 
benignity. That was all gone, and in its stead were terrible 
accusations and sinister smiles and laughter. That she herself 
had altered did not occur to her; she was the same Viola, 
capable always of the crime that she had this day committed ; 
capable always of— she shrank frantically from the horrible 
word. 

As a man fighting with some wild beast for dear life, this 
child wrestled, in the loneliness of that little sea haunted 
♦ chamber, with a demon born within her own consciousness, 
who assailed her without pause or mercy through all the 
waking hours of that dreadful night. It seemed as if this 
Creature — for living form the unspeakable Idea took in her 
distraught imagination — were devouring her inch by inch, 
her and all that she possessed. Her childhood shrivelled up in 
the blast of his hot breath; her innocence, her childish 
dreams, her ignorance of the deepest gulfs of human misery. 
The gates of the great Darkness were opened, and she could 
already see stretching far away the dim, woeful plains and 
midnight mountains in whose black chasms human souls lay 
rent and bleeding. The air was heavy with sighing and 
lamentation. 

Upon how many scenes of human agony had those old 
grey stones looked down, while the sea sung its eternal re- 
quiem to hope and sweet desires ? Yet never, perhaps, had 
they witnessed a struggle more terrible than the succomdess 
soul-travail of this solitary child— a soul battling in the dark- 
ness with the image of a great crime, warding off with vain 
and desperate efforts the memory of a moment’s flash of in- 
sane fury,— that moment, which had blazed out upon the 
v ery sunshine in hues of flame, fierce and crimsoned with the 
wild image of — Murder ! 


CHAPTER VHI . 

A SYMPOSIUM. 

The news of Philip’s accident brought, as Harry said, “a 
large and fashionable circle” to Caleb’s little Hermitage. 
Mrs. Sedley drove over early in her solemn old carriage to 
fetch her daughter and inquire for Philip. The Clevedon peo- 
ple also trundled across country in their more lively vehicle, 
but delayed their visit philosophically till the afternoon. 


A SFMFOSICW. 


55 


Far from philosophic were the fond parents of Philip, who 
arrived breathless with a captive doctor at an unearthly hour 
in the morning; and rushed to their son’s bedside with a thou- 
sand exclamatory questions. The thought that he might have 
been killed thoroughly overcame poor Lady Dendraith, who 
broke into sobs and cries, and had to be removed bodily by 
Caleb, who was confirmed by the doctor when he said that if 
she behaved in that way she would soon succeed in complet- 
ing what the accident had failed by a hair’s-breadth to effect. 

The examination of the injured leg by the doctor was fol- 
lowed by the cheering announcement that it had been perfectly 
well set, and that with proper precautions there was no rea- 
son to fear any permanent injury. 

Viola looked on and listened in the deepest anxiety. She 
shrank guiltily away from Philip’s parents, and answered 
only by a deep flush when Sir Philip said to her, in rather a» 
severe tone, “ I hope this will be a lesson to you not to give 
way to temper, my child; if it hadn’t been for my son’s mar- 
vellous strength and presence of mind, he would have cer- 
tainly been killed.” 

‘‘Indeed, yes,” said Lady Dendraith, shaking her head; 
“ passion is a dreadful thing, and always leads to trouble.” 

There was something ludicrous^ if Viola could have seen it, 
in this plump, well-to-do lady moralising about the evil results 
of passion; but the child was inaccessible to all ideas of the 
ludicrous just now ; indeed at no time was she very keenly 
alive to the humorous side of things. 

Reluctantly she had to leave the Hermitage and go home 
with her mother, who promised that she should come and see 
the invalid as often as the doctor would permit. 

Mrs. Sedley did not say a word of reproach to her daughter 
for her disobedience; she felt that the child had been already 
severely punished, though she little guessed how severely. 

The next time that Viola saw Philip he was looking quite 
strong, and complaining bitterly of the restraint still imposed 
upon him. 

“The doctor says I shall walk again as well as ever, for 
which all praise to ‘ mo7i che?^ phFosophe,^ and the rest of you. 
Lancaster here behaved like a Trojan. As to the coast- 
guardsman, he behaved like a true Briton. And Viola— what 
shall I say of her ? Well, she did her very best to make up 
for pitching me over the cliff in that spirited manner ! I 
can’t get over the idea of this mite having actually brought 
me to death’s door ! It is really splendid. She will be a fas- 
cinating woman when she grows up. It isn’t the quiet non- 
descript women that take one’s heart by storm; what men 
love is life and passion.” 

“Yes, until they marry,” said Harry; “and then if your 
high-steppers don’t calm down into a domestic jog-trot, they 
are indignant. I once heard a fellow make a curious remark 
about two sistei*s : the elder, he said, was the girl to fall in 


56 


TEE WING OF AZRAEL, 


love with, the younger the ofie to marry. I expect the 
woman of the nineteenth century is going to make hay of our 
cherished institutions.” 

“We have another great power to deal with besides the 
nineteenth century woman,” said Caleb ; “our great immova- 
ble middle class.” 

“True,” assented Harry; “and that badly-dressed old 
sheet-anchor won’t stand any nonsense about its cherished 
institutions. A sense of being tied hand and foot like a Gul- 
liver, gives us a feeling of moral safeness, and is wonderfully 
conducive to the serenity of the average conscience.” 

“The ‘badly dressed sheet-anchor’ (a singular figure, by 
the way) is a trifle thick-headed ; we must calculate on that.” 

Of such convereations was Viola now often the puzzled 
hearer, for where Caleb was, there, to a dead certainty, dis- 
* cussion would be also. 

His manner towards Viola was a source of perpetual 
amusement to Philip and Harry. Ho what he w^puld, poor 
man ! he found it impossible to project himself into the con- 
sciousness of a being who did not understand the nature of a 
syllogism, and— if Harry was to be believed — he always ad- 
dressed Viola wuth deep respect in the language of “pure 
reason.” That young man. used to return to Clevedoh after 
a visit to the Hermitage, and amuse his cousin by describing 
how Caleb in abstract moments of close-knit argument had 
turned to Viola with some such remark as: “To this you will 
at once reply that Kant regards our religious beliefs as either 
statutory, that is, arbitrarily revealed, or moral, that is, con- 
nected with the consciousness of their necessity and know^a- 
a priori.'^ 

This, no doubt, was one of Harry’s exaggerations, but the 
story was not witliout some foundation. 

Viola w^as interested in Kant; wdry, Harry never could 
understand. He did not realize the natural avidity with 
which a starved intelligence^ absorbs any fresh idea, however 
seemingly unattractive. Mrs. Sedley’s careful selection of 
books for her daughter’s reading had the result of making the 
child eager for mental food of some other flavour; it mattered 
little what, so long only as it was quite unlike the severely 
wholesome diet on which she was being monotonously reared. 

Besides being introduced to Kant, whom she found a pleas- 
ant and intelligent person, Viola made the acquaintance of 
Socrates, or Mr. Socrates, as Philip gravely insisted he must 
be called, on the ground that “ familiarity breeds contempt.” 

Harry shocked her greatly by saying, “Well, after all, you 
know, he is distinctly the greatest bore on record. We 
should never endure such an old proser now ! Think of the 
way he nagged at those long-suffering people in the Dia- 
logues ! I don’t wonder that the Athenians resorted in de- 
spair to hemlock. As 'for Xantippe, poor woman ! I have 
always had the deepest sympathy for her. I am certain the 


A ^SYMPOSIUM. 


57 


man deranged a naturally fine intellect and destroyed the 
temper of an angel.” 

Poor Viola ! she scarcely knew what to believe ! The mix- 
ture of jest and earnest which ran like tangled threads 
through the whole conversation was most confusing to her. 
She was utterly unaccustomed to lights and shades of thought, 
or to quick changes of mental attitude. The three men into 
whose society she was now thrown opened up a new world 
of ideas, delightful but bewildering. Caleb’s position in the 
group did not puzzle her as it would have puzzled an older 
person, but she was interested to learn that he had been dis- 
covered by Harry Lancaster in London in a state of terrible 
privation; that a friendship had sprung up between the two 
men ; and that, finally, Calel> had been installed by Sir Philip 
at the ruin, of which he was now custodian, keeping it from 
falling into utter decay, while he took charge of the stables, 
outbuildings, and gardens belonging to the empty house. 

Sometimes Caleb would propose to make the meeting into 
a genuine symposium, setting glasses on the table and bring- 
ing out a bottle of home-made wine with which Lady Den- 
draith always kept him well supplied. 

It was an incongruous group, with an incongruous back- 

f round, of which Philip on his couch in Caleb’s picturesque 
itch on formed the central figure. 

The shadows and sombre colouring threw the four faces into 
relief. The splendidly handsome features of the invalid 
formed a fine nucleus to the picture, and Viola’s pale, ques- 
tioning face, with its strange melancholy, seemed to corre- 
spond to that note of sadness which can be caught in all 
things human, if we listen for a moment, ever so carelessly. 

Tlie eagerness with which slie waited on Philip was touch- 
ing, even to those who did not know what lay on her heart; 
to an onlooker who had guessed that secret the whole scene 
would have been no less than tragic. Had her sense of guilt 
been able to overcome her old dislike to Philip, one source of 
confiict would have disappeared ; but it was not so. After 
the first rush of pitiful remorse, which had drowned for the 
time every other sentiment, Viola was again assailed by the 
old antipathy. With this she had continually to struggle, 
and those who have realised the strange intensity of the child’s 
nature will understand what such a struggle implies. 

Philip’s bantering, familiarly affectionate manner was stir- 
ring up the old angry feelings. A sudden flash of her dark 
eyes would make liini laugh and pretend to cower away as if 
in fear. 

“I’ll be good; I’ll be good! Don’t murder me outright, 
there’s a good child !” 

And then the light would die out of her eyes, and she would 
turn away, perhaps going to the window or to the open door, 
where she would stand looking out upon the sea. 

Mrs, Sedley had permitted, and even encouraged the child 


58 


THE^WING OF AZRAEL. 


in thesG visits to the bedside of the invalid, because she re- 
garded them as acts of atonement. The horror of causing a 
fellow-creature’s death had come so near to the child that she 
could not fail to be deeply impressed by it. 

Philip’s recovery was very rapid. As soon as he was able 
to be moved, his mother bore him off in triumph to Upton 
Court. That broke up “ the symposium,” as Caleb called it, 
and finished one of the most exciting chapters in Viola’s short 
life. Her visits to Philip were still continued, but at longer 
intervals, and under conditions entirely changed. She used 
to bring him flowers as votive offerings, and sometimes she 
would shyly offer him some worm or beetle which she imag- 
ined must be as valuable in his eyes as in hers. 

She tried to discover what his soul most yearned for, 
whether tadpoles or purple emperors or piping bullfinches, or 
it might be a retriever puppy! Then she would spend her 
days trying to gratify his ambition. On one of her visits a 
round fluffy squeaking object with a damp pink nose was 
placed in Philip’s arms, with the words, “ You said the other 
day that you wouldn’t care to live without a retriever puppy ; 
I have brought you one, and you can have four more if you 
like. ” 

Philip kept the puppy, and said that now he was reconciled 
to life. By the time he had quite recovered, the small brown 
creature had lost a good deal of its pulpiness, and might be 
seen floundering happily about the garden ; a charming, lanky, 
boneless individual, amiable to the point of weakness, play- 
ful and destructive beyond all telling. To* Viola’s delight, 
Bouncer, as he was called, had the honour of being taken up to 
Oxford when his master returned thither at the commence- 
ment of the term. 

ATter that, things rolled back to their old course: Viola 
seldom saw the outside of the gates of the Manor, and she had 
ample opportunity in the stagnant solitude of her home to 
brood upon the secret that clouded her colourless life. It 
helped to exaggerate many qualities in her that were already 
too pronounced, while hastening unduly the maturity of her 
character. 

She made no further attempts to wander out of bounds, 
and Miss Gripper now seldom caught her climbing trees or 
engaged in any other unlady-like occupation. She delivered 
herself over to the influence of her mother, and about eigh- 
teen months after Philip’s accident she passed through a phase 
of fervent religious feeling, during w^hich she rivalled in devo- 
tion and self-mortification many a canonised saint. Her 
mother had some trouble in keeping her from doing herself 
bodily harm, for in her zeal she preferred tasks that gave her 
pain, and never thought she was well employed unless her 
occupation w^as severely distasteful. 

She used now rather to enjoy her father’s fits of anger, for 
they gave her an opportunity of showing a saint-like meek- 


A SYMPOSIUM. 


59 


ness under persecution. At this time her behaviour was a 
grotesque caricature of her mother’s, but Mrs. Sedley did not 
recognise the portrait. She rejoiced in her daughter’s piety, 
and half -believed, perhaps, that in the service of Heaven one 
might fly in the face of natural laws with impunity. 

Days and weeks passed on ; the daily routine was never al- 
tered ; the only change that marked the course of time at the 
Manor-House was the presence of a lady who came daily from 
the town of Upton to carry on Viola’s education. 

Miss Bowles was a worthy, conscientious, washed-out per- 
son who had long said good-bye to joy, and lived a dim 
struggling, dreary life with lady-like propriety. 

She scarcely seemed a real human being ; she was the in- 
carnated emblem of sound religious principles, arithmetic for 
schools, French (with Parisian accent), German (Hanove- 
rian), English Grammar, Composition, and History— all these 
things and many others Miss Bowles represented ; — but try to 
compound out of them a personality and miserable was your 
failure! It lay so deeply buried, so thickly incrusted — like 
some poor bird’s nest petrified in the Derbyshire springs — 
that you searched for it in vain. Perhaps a genial sympa- 
thetic person might have warmed it into life once more, but 
Mrs. Sedley was neither genial nor sympathetic. 

Viola applied herself conscientiously to the dry tasks which 
this lady imposed upon her, associating all that was dull and 
uninteresting in these daily tables of facts and figures with 
the neat but certainly not gaudy drab bonnet and pinched- 
looking jacket of her governess. 

Viola was growing now into a slim girl, graceful and swift 
in her movements, with a reserved, melancholy expression 
and a rich, sweet voice. Philip Dendraith had prophesied 
that she would turn out a fascinating woman, but, according 
to her father, she threatened to be a dead failure. 

“ Ho'w are we going to marry a pale-faced frightened 
creature like that?” he demanded in his coarse way. “She’s 
only fit for a cloister ; and I, for my part, think it’s a great 
pity we haven’t got nunneries to send our plain girls to. 
What’s the use of keeping them idling about at home, every 
one laughing at them because they can’t get husbands?” 

At. such remarks Mrs. Sedley, meek as she was, would 
wince. 

In Mrs. Sedley’s simple creed, marriage, no matter under 
what conditions, was intrinsically sacred, but she would not 
counsel her dauglter to marry for money; that seemed to her 
very sinful. Yet she knew well that Mr. Sedley would never 
tolerate for Viola a poor marriage; he had long been resting 
his hopes of the restitution of the family fortunes upon his 
daughter; and without reserve he had told his wife what he 
expected, and what she must exert herself to bring about. 
Mrs. Sedley watched her child’s development with dread; 
for every day that passed over her was bringing her nearer 


60 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


to the crisis of her life, the terrible crisis which seemed so 
far more likely to bring disaster than happiness. And what 
was the mother’s part to be in that fateful moment? Her 
influence over the girl was supreme: upon her action all 
would depend. 

The responsibility seemed unendurable, the problems of 
conscience pitiless in the terrible alternatives which they 
offered to the tortured will. 

Suffering, which Mrs. Sedley had borne herself without a 
murmur, made her tremble when it threatened her child. 
Yet her teaching to that child was perfectly consistent with 
the whole tenor of her life: ‘‘ Endure bravely, and in silence; 
that is the woman’s part, my daughter.” 

She was ready, with hands that trembled and quailing 
heart (but she was ready), to give that nerve- thrilled being 
to the flames— for Duty’s sake— and quickly that insatiate 
woman’s Idol was advancing to demand his victim. 

Year by year, the state of Mr. Sedley ’s money-matters grew 
more hopeless, and a possibility which had long been thought 
of in secret was at last acknowledged openly between hus- 
band and wife. Mrs. Sedley had never seen her husband so 
deeply moved as when he confessed that they might have to 
leave the Manor-House, the home where he had lived as a boy, 
where his father had lived and died, and his ancestors for 
many a generation. The man was moved almost to tears at 
the prospect of banishment from the home of his race. 
Sentiment — like a sudden flame in seemingly dead embers — 
sprang up on this one subject, though it answered to no other 
charming. 

“If it be in any way possible to avoid it, we will not, we 
must not leave the old place,” said Mrs. Sedley earnestly. 

“There is only one way to avoid it,” he replied; “Viola 
must make a rich marriage.” 

‘•Yes; if she loves the man,” Mrs. Sedley ventured to 
suggest. 

“Loves — fiddle-de-dee!” cried Mr. Sedley angrily; “don’t 
talk schoolgirl twaddle to me, madam. What has a well- 
brought-up young woman to do with love, I should like to 
know? I have no patience with this spoony nonsense. I call 
it downright improper. Let a young woman take what’s 
given her and be thankful. Confound it! it’s not every 
woman can get a husband at all !” 

With these words ringing in her ears, Mrs. Sedley would 
look with something approaching terror #on the sensitive 
face of her daughter, who, as she grew^ more womanly in 
appearance, seemed to become more than ever shrinking 
and reserved. 

Her father shrugged his shoulders angrily. 

“Who’s going to marry a girl like that?” he would ask 
contemptuously; “ she looks ha!f-asleep.” 

With her customary want of tact in appreciating char- 


ALTERNATIVES. 


61 


acter, Mrs. Sedley used to confide some of her anxieties to 
Lady Clevedon. who scoffed long and loudly, not at Mrs. 
Sedley, but at Viola. 

“Dear me; it’s very interesting to be so sensitive !~-quite 
a fashionable complaint among girls nowadays. Too sensitive 
to marry, too sensitive to be mothers ! Is there anything that 
they are not too sensitive to be?” 

“ You know that I cannot answer you if you speak in this 
vein, Au^sta; but Viola gives me great anxiety.” 

“My dear, something ought to be done; the machinery 
of the universe must be stopped ; it is too coarse and noisy 
for these highly-strung beings ; they can’t stand it. Clearly 
‘ gravitation ought to cease when they pass by.’ ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

ALTERNATIVES. 

In silence, day by day and month by month, the clouds 
swept over the Manor-House, and silently the scroll of the 
years unfolded, revealing little, but hinting many things. 
Nine times the leaves had fallen since Philip’s accident, and 
Geoffrey had now shot up into a gawky, good-natured youth, 
and his parents began to cast about anxiously in their minds 
to find him a profession. His hearty loathing of the drudgery 
of office work made the choice difficult. Geoffrey would have 
preferred the army, but his father swore a great many oaths, 
and declared that he was not going to be bled to death by a 
lot of idle sons who couldn’t live upon their pay. He had 
had enough of that. Manitoba was bruited (for no congenial 
work nearer home could be heard of), and this, as an alter- 
native in case nothing better offered, Geoffrey had dbme to 
regard as his destiny. Meanwhile he remained at home, and 
was understood to be “ looking out for something.” The in- 
tervals between the times of “ looking out ” he used to spend 
in fishing his father’s trout-stream, for this was the delight 
of his soul. 

Geoffrey’s presence made a great change in Viola’s life, and 
her father began to feel more hopeful about her future achieve- 
ments after the boy had driven away the dreary depressed 
look, and summoned in its place an expression of brightness 
that entirely transfigured the girl’s face. Her rich dark skin 
and black hair, the fine eyes kindling with youthful delights, 
gave her genuine pretensions to beauty. 

It was a‘ sombre beauty ; still beauty it was, and of a subtle 
and haunting kind. During the nine uneventful years which 


62 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


had ushered in her girlhood Viola had only now and again 
met either Philip Dendraith or Harry Lancaster. Caleb she 
occasionally saw. He was still living with his beloved books 
in his little Hermitage. 

Harry had gone to India with his regiment, and Clevedon 
mourned his exile, and looked forward to his shortly expected 
return with much joy. The hopeful Philip was reported to 
be leading a dissipated life in London. His good looks, his 
brilliant prospects, and his undoubted social talents carried 
all before him. Whenever Philip was at Upton Court he 
made an effort to renew his old acquaintance with Viola, 
being curious to see how she had turned out. But this was 
no easy task. Shyness, partly hereditary, partly induced 
by a solitary life, had become almost a disease with her, 
and she used to flee from her fellow-creatures whenever 
they approached. 

For the third time during a three weeks’ visit Philip arrived 
one afternoon at the Manor-House, and asked for Viola, but 
she was not to be found. She had seen the visitor arrive, and 
instantly set off at her utmost speed to the farthest confines 
of the park, where, shivering with excitement, she lingered 
for hours and hours, not venturing to go back to the house, 
in case Philip should still be there. Unfortunately for her, her 
father happened to be in, and he was so angry when at last 
she did cautiously return, that she thought he would have 
struck her. She had never seen him so enraged, although 
outbursts of this sort after his drinking-bouts were not un- 
common. Fury carried the man out of himself, and he said 
things which even he afterwards owned were “rather strong.” 
Viola listened in silence. She was learning lessons never to 
be forgotten to her dying day, lessons which perhaps every 
woman has to learn in some form or another, but which few 
are fated to be taught in so many words by their own fathers. 

In the name of Heaven and common-sense, how did she ex- 
pect to get a husband if she behaved in this addle-headed 
manner ? Half the women in London were ready to throw 
themsMves into Philip Dendraith’s arms, and yet Viola would 
not condescend to the common politeness of coming to see 
him when he called ! She had run away on purpose, of course ; 
it was an old trick of hers, very girl-like and engaging, no 
doubt, but might one make a polite request that these grace- 
ful little exhibitions of coyness might not occur again ? Coy- 
ness before a man had made any advances at all, was what 
one might call dangerously premature. 

“ You are not a queen of beauty, let me tell you, that you 
can afford to indulge in these womanish devices. My doors 
are not besieged with suitors for your hand.” 

“Not want to marry ? Not want to marry ?” Mr. Sedley 
yelled, with a burst of fury. “ You— you— miserable little 
fool! Do you know what you are saying ? Can’t you speak? 
Can’t you say something instead of standing there before me 


ALTERNATIVES, 


63 


like a block of wood ? And pray, what do you think would 
be the use of you if you didn’t marry ? What can you do but 
loaf dismally about the place and serve as a wet blanket to 
every one’s enjoyment ? What's the good of a woman but to 
marry and look after her husband and children ? What can 
she do else ? Tell me that, if you please. Do you hear me, 
Viola ?” 

“I would try and earn my own living,” said Viola at last 
in a low, trembling voice. 

Earn you own living I'' echoed her father, with a shout 
of laughter. “ You earn your own living! And pray, in what 
profession would you propose to become a shining light? The 
army, the navy, the Church, the law ? Or would you per- 
haps enter upon the field of politics ? Everything is open to 
you ; you have only to choose. And you know such a lot, 
don’t you ? You are so learned and capable, so well able to 
force your way in the world. Oh 1 pray don’t think of marry- 
ing; afar more brilliant and congenial career lies before you.” 

Viola answered nothing; she was suffering too keenly. - 
miserably realizing that in her father’s mockery lay a deadly 
truth; that she had, in fact, nothing to reply but, “Thou 
hast said it.” 

What was she ? What did she know ! What had she 
seen ? What could she do ? To all this there was only one 
answer: Nothing. Books had been forbidden her, human 
society had been cut off from her ; scarcely had she been be- 
yond the gates of her home, except once or twice when she 
had gone for change of air to Wales or Yorkshire, or fora 
day now and then to London to see “ the sights” ! 

“ O mother, it was cruel!” From the depths of her heart 
that bitter cry went up, the first word or thought of reproach 
that had ever arisen there for that much-adored and devoted 
mother. And this was the result of all those anxious days, 
those fervent prayers, that ceaseless self-denial ! By her own 
father, she was taunted with her helplessness, and reminded 
not only that the sole career open to her was marriage, but 
that she must make deliberate efforts to secure it for herself, 
or at any rate must aid and abet in schemes which others 
undertook on her behalf. She must bestir herself in the rn^at- 
ter, for it was her appointed business. 

Jn after-life Viola learnt about the outcast of her sex— facts 
which at this time were unknown to her; but that revelation 
was not more painful, nor did it even strike her as very dif- 
ferent from what she had learnt to-day about the lot of 
women who were not outcast, but who took upon themselves 
to cast out others. 

The girl’s stunned silence irritated her father beyond en- 
durance. . , „ , 

“In the name of Heaven, why can’t you speak, girl?” he 
thundered; “ it’s your confounded obstinacy; and you get it 
from your mother. But we have to see yet who is master. 


64 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


Understand that I mean to endure no more of this nonsense, 
and the next time you are asked to appear in the drawing- 
room, you will please to do so, and make yourself pleasant to 
the visitor into the bargain. Too much of this accursed non- 
sense would land you high and dry, a burden to me for life.” 

Viola drew a quick breath. 

“Yes, a burden, a dead weight, hanging like a millstone 
round my neck.” Do you know what a woman is w^ho does 
not marry ? I will tell you : she is a cumberer of the ground, 
a devourer of others’ substance, a failure, a wheel that won’t 
turn ; she is in the way ; it were better she had never been 
born. She is neglected, despised, left out; and who cares 
whether she is alive or dead ? She is alone, without office, 
without object, without the right to exist. If you are minded 
to choose such a lot, at least you shall do it with your eyes 
open. A woman who is not performing her natural duties, 
serving her husband and her children is an absurdity, — an 
anomaly, a ramrod without a gun, a key without a lock, a— 
a— ship without a sail— she’s— she’s a damned nuisance!” 
roared Mr. Sedley, with a final burst of fury, as he turned 
on his heel and stamped out of the room, banging the door so 
ferociously that it shook the old house from cellar to roof. 

“ The master’s been drinking again,” announced the butler 
to the inmates of the servants’ hall. 

It was in the drawing-room that this stormy interview took 
place ; the chill, ghostly old room where the lost souls dwelt 
and the Spirit of Music held her court. It was a dreary day; 
Philip had chosen it for his call, thinking that Viola was 
likely to be home. Outside, old William was weeding the 
gravel in his usual steady, patient way ; the ceaseless chop- 
chop of his hoe, regular as the dropping of water, sounded 
sti-angely forlorn in the silence. 

Viola stood for full five minutes exactly where her father 
left her, with her eyes fixed upon the dull forms of the mist- 
dimmed trees, upon the melancholy avenue whose few re 
maining leaves awaited the first breath of wind to fall shiver- 
ing to the sodden ground. The girl fiung herself into the near- 
est chair and buried her face in the cushions. She was shaken 
from head to foot, hut not a sound escaped her. Grief which 
finds its easiest expression in tears was reserved for souls less 
passionate. 

There was something frantic in her present distress; she 
was like a hunted creature at bay. Her position, as repre- 
sented by her father’s words, seemed utteny unbearable, ut- 
terly humiliating. Why had her parents forced existence 
upon her if it was to be one long degradation ? Better indeed 
that she had never been horn! “Better, ah! better a thou- 
sand times,” old William’s patient hoe seemed to say, as it 
beat its rhythm on the gravel without ; “better, a thousand 
times, a thousand times !” 

With a strange desperate pleasure in self-torture, the girl 


ALTERNATIVES. 


65 


placed the whole picture clearly before her mind ; showing 
herself exactly how she stood, how helpless she was, how 
closely the two alternatives of the woman’s lot encompassed 
her. On the next occasion that Philip called, it would beseem 
her to put on her best frock and her best smile, and try all 
she knew to charm him. Were not her future prospects de- 
pendent on his (or on some man’s) favour ? Had she not 
been informed, and in most explicit terms, that her father 
had no mind to keep her always in his house, and that he 
expected her to betake herself without delay to her “natural 
duties ?” 

The chop-chopping of the hoe had ceased now, but only to 
be succeeded by the swish-swish of the broom sweeping away 
the withered leaves. 

‘ ‘ I could sweep away withered leaves, or hoe out weeds ; 
I could dust or cook, or wash, or— or anything that requires 
only health and strength. I might even be li& Miss Bowles 
and teach, but it would have to be very young children, — I 
know so little, so little !” 

She gave a shiver. 

“Until to-day,— O mother, dear mother, I did not even 
know what it meant to be a girl !” 

Like a pulse, the broom went beating on the gravel out- 
side, and upon the window-panes strucK the first drops of 
coming rain. A sound of wind among the trees heralded its 
approach, and presently it arrived; a gush of tears from the 
sorrow-laden heavens. Old William worked on as if he did 
not notice it, patiently bending his head to windward, with- 
out so much as looking up to see where the rain came from. 
Viola could bear the sight no longer. She rose, drew up the 
heavy ill-fitting window, and stood with the rain drifting in 
upon her face and hair. 

“ William,” she said, “ why do you go on working ? You 
will get cold ; you will get rheumatism ; it is so bad for you. 
Why don’t you go in ?” 

Old William paused for a moment, and raised himself 
slightly (only slightly) from his bent attitude, leaning on the 
handle of his broom. 

“ The rain don’t do me no harm. Miss,” he said, with a slight 
smile; “I’m used to it. Thomas says I’m to get this gravel 
done to night, and Mr. Sedley he wants to see it done; and 
I’m just a-doin’ of it.” , 

“Oh, what does it matter?” cried Viola. “Rheumatism 
must be so hard to bear.” 

Poor William gave a sadly knowing shake of the head. 

“Ay, that it be. Miss,” he said. “1 has it so bad at times 
as I can’t scarcely move— the rheumatis’ is very bad, very 
bad indeed. My father, ’e ’ad it dreadful, ’e did; his joints 
was all gone stin, and his fingers was all crumpled up like.” 

“ Then it is madness in you to stay out in the rain,” urged 
Viola. 


66 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL, 


But the old man had not arrived at that highly advanced 
stage of mental development when things immediate can he 
balanced against things future. As he had done for years, 
he went on working in the rain, and endured his rheumatism 
when it arrived with his usual patience. The act of mind 
and will necessary to alter his habitual conduct in deference 
to experience was beyond him. 

All he would do was to put on his coat at Viola’s urgent 
entreaty. 

There was something in the dim, forlorn lot of this old man 
that had always filled Viola with sadness, but to-night she 
could have taken his hard old hand and kissed it and wept 
over it in an ecstasy of pity and fellow-feeling. 

Had she spoken aloud the words that came welling up into 
her heart, she would have made old William open his eyes as 
he had never opened them in his life before. 

“Let me come to you and comfort you; let me be a 
daughter to you ; let me work for you and for myself ; and 
then perhaps your lot might be brighter, and then I should not 
need to seek the favour of any man for the sake of house and 
home, or to avoid remaining here to be a burden to my father 
and to the world !” 

Seldom does the civilized human being speak according to 
his impulse. He is too well drilled. Most lives are guided in 
their courses by far other than the strongest feelings of the 
actors. Often they are guided by the wishes of those with 
whom the lot has become associated ; often mere force of 
habit will hold people in an old and painful groove for long 
pathetic years, merely because they consistently subordinate 
the great to the little, matters of life and death to some pres- 
ent, importunate, but perfectly trivial claim. Broken hearts, 
oftener than we think, are the handiwork of feeble heads. 
As Harry Lancaster had once said, with his usual extrava- 
gance, “ Give me the making of the people’s brains, and let 
who will make their hearts !” 

When the rain and wind became so violent that old Wil- 
liam could not continue his work, he yielded to the logic of 
events and took shelter in the potting-shed. 

The rain was driving in great hissing sheets across the 
country; the windows streamed, and shook with angry 
clamour. 

Throwing on a cloak and drawing the hood over her head, 
Viola went out into the storm. She could scarcely make way 
against it, the wind and rain beat so furiously against her. 
But she pressed on, seeming to find relief from the tempest of 
her own feeling in the tumult of the elements. One of the 
most painful features in her trouble was, that there was no 
one to be angry with ; her whole nature rose in fury against 
what she felt to he the alternative indignities forced upon 
her, and yet her anger could not pour itself upon any indi- 


ALTERNATIVES. 67 

vidual; she could not fling back the insult in his facn and be 
free of it. 

It clung to her defllingly, as some slimy sea-weed clings 
when it loses the sustaining of the water. The consciousness 
of it was fast saturating her whole being, so that the very 
texture of her soul was changed. 

Struggling blindly on, harbouring a thousand wild thoughts, 
her attention was an-ested by a low whine, and turning, she 
saw coming towards her the faithful Bill Dawkins,— a de- 
crepid old dog now, how different from the sprightly poodle 
of bygone days, “who looked as if the speed of thought were 
in his limbs !” Quietly and with how sedate a mien Bill Daw- 
kins dragged his slow limbs across the lawn, his ears adroop, 
his tail no longer quivering (as a compass-needle) with elec- 
trical intelligence !” 

He and old William might have mingled their teai’s over 
their rheumatism, for poor Bill also suftei'ed from this cruel 
malady ; and had he been capable of mounting the hill of hu- 
man thought and overlooking thence the plain of universal 
destiny, he might, in his pain and discouragement, have made 
an adaptation of the Japanese proverb and cried gloomily, 
“If you hate a dog, let him live.” 

Viola went to meet the limping creature with sorrowful 
heart. 

Such was the end of life, and the beginning ? the rosy, 

riotous beginning? Of that was Viola herself a shining ex- 
ample ! 

“ Are you coming with me in all this rain?” she asked, as 
she stooped to stroke the dog, who sat down at her feet and 
raised his expressive brown eyes to her face. 

He looked up at her pleadingly, wistfully, as if he were 
trying with all his might to speak. 

“What is it? what is it?” she asked, pitifully. “Are you 
in pain? Are you miserable and lonely? Does no one care 
whether you are alive or dead? But, indeed, one person does 
care, and one heart sickens at these dumb tragedies that 
nobody heeds.” 

She bent down and took him tenderly in her arms— great 
creature as he was— and carried him into one of the many 
tumble-down old outhouses where the apples and pears, and 
the watering-machines and rollers, and a thousand and one 
odds and ends were stowed away. 

The place had a fresh earthy scent, redolent to Viola of 
subtle memories of childhood, bringing back in sweet over- 
powering rushes feelings of the bygone days. How many a 
joyous hour had she and Geoff rej^ and Bill Dawkins spent in 
this old shed, potting cuttings, trying experiments (and such 
experiments!) with the watering machine— growing instan- 
taneous mustard and cress, eating apples, and indulging in a 
thousand other pastimes, in all of vfhich the poodle had more 
or less taken part ! There was some straw and a piece of old 


68 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


sacking on the floor, and upon this Viola laid liim, covering 
him up as much as he would allow her, for he was shivering 
all over and looked most wretched. He seemed very weak, 
but he wagged his tail now and again, and he had a heart- 
breaking waj^ of offering to shake hands at intervals in a 
feeble, affectionate fashion. There was something in his 
demeanour besides gratitude ; he seemed to have divined that 
his mistress was in trouble, and was doing his best to comfort 
her. 

Love is one of those lawless emotions that cares nothing 
for what is “ natural” or expected; and Viola’s love for thfe 
faithful creature did not pause to moderate itself on the re- 
flection that to expend so much time and devotion upon an 
animal argued an ill-regulated mind. 

The good poodle had a personality as distinct as that of 
any human being, and a more lovable one human being never 
had! 

Viola was down on her knees beside him, caressing, sooth- 
ing, speaking loving words, with a desperate feeling in her 
heart all the time that the poor creature was dying. 

“It would not be kind to keep you if I could,” she said 
tenderly; “but oh! how sad, how sad I shall be without 
you !” 

Almost as if he understood, the dog half turned and laid 
his paw, in the old pleading, caressing way, upon her arm. 
The next moment he sank down again panting; his body 
gave a spasmodic twitch, and then lay very stul. With a 
low cry, Viola flung her arms round him passionately, and 
kissed his shaggy head again and again. 

“Good-bye, good-We, my dear one; my noblest, kindest, 
faithfulest friend ! Good-bye for ever ! and oh that I could 
tell how I have loved you !” 

The dim, beautiful eyes opened slowly; the dying creature 
looked up with an almost human expression of love and 
gratitude; then he feebly licked Viola’s hand for the last 
time, and died. 

Viola, lying down beside him on the rough straw, sobbed 
her heart out. 


CHAPTER X. 

ADRIENNE. 

Not many days after Bill Dawkins’ death Harry Lancaster 
arrived in England. He went first to see his mother and his 
sister, who lived at Upton, in a tiny house belonging to Lord 
Clevedon, about a mile from tV,e home where they had passed 
their prosperous days before j'.Ir Lancaster’s death. Mrs. 
Dixie, who had married a second time, and lost her second 


ADRIENNE. 


69 


husband almost immediately after her marriage, had a bland 
expansiveness about her manner which referred directly to 
lier former glories, just as her old lace and miniatures and 
sundry valuable pieces of plate were eloquent relics of that 
past which threw so much effulgence upon her and her only 
daughter, Adrienne. Adrienne, however, was a cultivated, 
keen-witted young woman, dainty in ideas as in her person, 
and she made her allusions to the past with delicacy, and in- 
deed very seldom made them at all. She did not follow her 
mother’s example of wearing at her throat a gigantic ancestor, 
with pink cheeks and a light blue coat. Her own son used 
to say of Mrs. Dixie that she was like a gorgeous sunset after 
a hot midsummer day; the sun and its glories had gone 
down, but the glow still remained. 

‘‘ WeU, mother, still the lady of the Castle,” he said. “ I 
declare you wear your vanished crown more royally than 
ever you did its antitype. It makes me feel like an involun- 
tary Prince of Wales merely to look at you!” 

As Mrs. Dixie liked to think that she possessed the “ grand 
air,” and as her sense of the ridiculous had its own very ex- 
clusive walks in life, she was able to draw up her portly 
figure with a peculiar wave of the spine presumably charac- 
teristic of royalty, while she smiled graciously down her not 
perfectly straight nose, remarking, with a sway of the head 
like that of a poplar in the wind— 

‘‘ My dear boy, I trust that I am as well able to fill a humble 
position with dignity as one more elevated. It is not wealth 
and prosperity that make the lady” (this with an air that 
beggars description). 

Harry gave a queer smile, expressive of so many things 
that it would be hard to name them all without making an 
exhaustive analysis of his character, and that would be a 
hard task indeed. A few characteristics may, however, be 
given. He was contemplative, critical, with an abiding en- 
joyment of the comedy of life, and a continual consciousness 
of the great deeps that lay beneath the feet of the players. 

It was this eternal mystery that gave such a wild ze^t to 
the never-ending game, such a ring to the laughter echoing 
dimly through those dark gulfs,— such wings to the jest and 
the fancy ! 

Harry was regarded at the Cottage as a joke personified ; 
his mother used to treasure up his sayings, and repeat them 
afterwards, minus the point, to her friends, with great pride 
and pomp. 

It was almost impossible to annoy Harry Lancaster, al- 
though he was capable on rare occasions of furious anger. 
The little mortifications of life that irritate most people 
served only as a fresh subject for some ridiculous pseudo- 
philosophy, on his part ; so that he was a very pleasant in- 
mate or any house, for he had the alchemist’s gift of turning 


70 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


base little troubles into golden opportunities for laughter. 
His sister Adrienne, who bore the whole burden of tbe house- 
hold and family affairs upon her wise shoulders, used to 
declare that Harry’s presence acted upon her health as a 
change to the seaside, and that he was the only infallible 
cure she knew of for headaches. 

For the rest, he was more or less of a mystery; nobody 
seemed to know what he thought in his serious moments, or 
if he had any serious moments at all. 

His manner was genial, even gaily affectionate; but the 
light, nonsensical vein always ran through everything he 
said, and cropping out unexpectedly in his gravest moments, - 
and constituted a wall of reserve far more impenetrable than 
mere silence. 

Brother and sister had been confidants as boy and girl in 
the early days at “ the Palace” before the Sunset,” as Harry 
called respectively their old home and their change of fortune. 
Together, in the dusk, they used to talk of the mysteries of 
life and death, of immortality, of free-will, of good and evil, 
of the formation of character, and the service of God. 
Adrienne used often to wonder what her brother thought of 
these things now after his man’s experience of life. She her- 
self had adopted a more or less conventional view of things in 
an unconventional way. She was too clever to be a mere 
passive echo; she thought for herself within limits, and had 
now become a refined, eleyated, intelligent expositor of cur- 
rent views. 

She responded to ideas of great moral elevation, while her 
admiration also ran towards a certain French finesse and 
sparkle, all of which qualities were shadowed forth in the 
daintiness of her dress and the delicate nuances of her manner. 

The swift pliancy of fancy which was one of Harry’s most 
attractive peculiarities Adrienne shared with him, but there 
was a singular difference in the manifestation of the same 
quality in the two characters. 

In Harry it suggested a certain largeness and freedom of 
nature; while in the sister it expressed fineness, brilliancy, 
cultivation ; but so far from giving the idea of liberty, it im- 
plied that of indefinable limitation. It suggested a nature 
close-set. concise, with crisp outlines, guiltless of expansive 
wandering into the untried. Adrienne Lancaster nev’er 
wandered carelessly into any region. She must be quite sure 
first if she approved of a region before she entered it. There 
was no reckless touch in her disposition, and in no circum- 
stances could one imagine the quality developing in her. In 
her brother it was very marked, though, so far, it had shown 
itself in a mere riot of fancy and humour. So alien to Adri- 
enne’s consciousness was the attribute that she even failed to 
notice it in Harry, closely as she studied him. 

It may be supposed that a good-looking young officer, of 


ADRIENNE. 


71 


genial temperament and pleasant manners, became very dear 
to the village of Upton; and “society” (consisting of the 
vicar’s family, the doctor’s family, Mr. and Mrs. Pellett, and 
one or two others) claimed him passionately for its own. The 
vicar’s family was inordinately large, and the prevailing im- 
pression left upon the mind after an introduction was ‘ ‘ eter- 
nally feminine,” a circumstance which the village thought 
most unfortunate, for how were all those girls to get married? 

How indeed ? for though Harry might do his duty as Eng- 
land expected of him, he could not marry the whole contin- 
gent of amiable sisters. England would have shown herself 
ungrateful if he had ! 

And then, was he in a position to marry even one of them ? 
The village feared not, much as it desired to see a break made 
in the firm ranks of the vicar’s charming family. Dick 
Evans, the eldest son, a pleasant, clever young fellow, a 
former friend at Oxford, became ferry’s frequent compan- 
ion. and the latter also showed a predilection for Dorothy, the 
youngest sister, still little more than a child, a fresh, robust, 
joyous creature, with bright cheeks and untidy auburn hair, 
and an incurable love for climbing trees and other unladylike 
pastimes, in which Harry wickedly encouraged her. She 
was an amusing proof of the inadequateness of common-sense 
for achieving reasonable views of life; for Dorothy had, as 
Harry said, enough of this quality to supply the deficiency of 
the House of Commons (he could not say more), yet her ideas 
on men, women, and things were the most laughter moving 
that it had ever been his good fortune to meet with. 

She was one of those rare beings who are predestined to be 
happy, to whom “whatever is, is right,” in the social world 
as in nature. 

Upton was twelve miles from the Manor House, so that 
Viola, unfortunately, could not enjoy the enormous advan- 
tage of knowing intimately a girl so different from herself as 
Dorothy Evans. Once or twice Viola had been to Upton, and 
remembered it as a little cluster of thatched cottages with 
pretty gardens, and one or two old-fashioned houses, which 
looked so calm and beautiful that it seemed as if the current 
of life must have been arrested, as if some satisfied Faust had 
at last said to the passing moment, “Stay; thou art so fair,” 
and the command had been obeyed by Destiny. 

It was on a balmy summer’s day that Viola first saw the 
place, and the picture remained very vividly in her memory. 
She wondered afterwards if some premonition of what was to 
come had made her regard it with special interest. 

Do we not all feel driven at times to believe that certain 
places, just as certain people, are fateful for us ?— that there 
is some subtle link between them and us, which we cannot 
break if we would? 

Beautiful as it was, Viola had a faint, unaccountable dislike 


72 THE WING OF AZRAEL, 

to the village; it seemed like a lovely grave, it was so “ hide- 
ously serene.” 

“ No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far off, happier sea,’' 

though the sea lay so near, out of sight beyond the undulat- 
ing downs. 

The second time that Viola saw this place was on the rare 
occasion of a two days' visit to her aunt at Clevedon. By this 
time the “ demon boy,” as Harry called the heir, had grown 
up and gone to Oxford, while the girl, who was some years 
older than Viola, had married and lived in town, — “ prosper- 
ous and miserable, ” according to the same authority. 

For a wonder, “Aunt Augusta” had just now only one 
friend staying with her, a supernaturally stylish lady called 
Mrs. Eussell Courtenay, who had so much “manner” that 
she thoroughly alarmed Viola, that young woman little guess- 
ing that this small-waisted being, with her vast assortment of 
turns and twists and wriggles, her bewildering pranks and 
gestures, was in reality a prey to shyness, greater if possible 
than Viola's own. 

Lady Clevedon drove her two guests over to call on Mrs, 
Dixie and Adrienne. 

“ I hope that Harry will be in, but I don’t think it’s likely,” 
she said; “he is the most erratic person I know; and I fear 
he is either walking poor old Mr. Pellett off his legs, undoing 
Dorothy Evans’s careful education, or talking nonsense to 
that ridiculous creature who poses as a philosopher, Caleb— 
Caleb what’s-his-name ?” 

“ Williams,” suggested Mrs. Eussell Courtenay, who knew 
something about literature, but whose memory her unfortu- 
nate shyness sometimes confused. 

Lady Clevedon treated her suggestion with friendly deri- 
sion, and Mrs. Courtenay suffered as keenly as if she had had 
on a shabby dress, or there had been a want of style about 
her bonnet. Effect was the idol of her soul. She posed, even 
to herself. 

The neat little cottage, covered with wistaria in full bloom, 
looked radiant this afternoon. 

Adrienne, in a daint}^ but serviceable holland apron, was 
gardening when the visitors drove up. 

Poor Viola! this young woman, too, had “manner,” 
though it was less artificial than Mrs. Courtenay’s, and 
therefore less alarming. 

“O Augusta 1 I am so glad ! And Mrs. Courtenay too,” 
she cried, running to the gate to let them in. “ This is heap- 
ing coals of fire upon my head ; for I ought to have called 
on you long ago. You must forgive a busy person who has 
cares of state upon her shoulders. Do come in ; my mother 
will be delighted.” 

“Adrienne,” said Lady Clevedon, “ this is my niece, Viola, 


ADRIENNE. 73 

whose acquaintance you ought to have made long ago. How- 
ever, better late tlian never !” 

‘‘Better, indeed,” said Miss Lancaster, with a pleasant 
smile. ‘ ‘ I scarcely feel like a stranger to you, Miss Se^ey , 
for your name has so long been familiar to me. Alas ! those 
horrid twelve miles between Upton and your place have much 
to answer for, have they not ?” 

‘‘ A punishment for flying in the face of Providence and 
living in the country,” observed Mrs. Courtenay, with a 
stylish undulation. 

This proposition led to a gay dispute, during which 
Adrienne conducted the visitors indoors, where they found 
Mrs. Dixie indulging in a regal nap, from which, however, 
she woke with creditable rapidity, and received her guests in 
what Harry called her best “sunset” manner. 

He came in in the midst of the interview, looking very 
warm and travel-stained. Adrienne said that a clever geolo- 
gist might tell exactly where he had been walking by a study 
of his garments. 

“I have been exploring the cliffs with Dick Evans,” said 
Harry. 

‘ Would he not come back with you to tea as usual?” 
asked Mrs. Dixie. 

Harry smiled. 

“No; he preferred returning to the Rectory by the back 
entrance, ‘for reasons’ (as Mr. Carlyle says) ‘which it may 
be interesting not to state.’ ” 

Being pressed for explanations, Harry said that Dick had 
unhappily rolled down a soft chalky incline, and that the 
general tone of his colouring had been so materially altered 
thereby as to make him feel a delicacy about appearing in 
refined society. 

Dorothy had met him in the back avenue, and had been 
driven for the expression of her feelings to roll over and over 
on the lawn, regardless of the fact that her mother had never 
encouraged her in such emotional excesses. 

After a burst of laughter, which the mere name of Dorothy 
was usually enough to call forth at the Cottage, Lady Cleve- 
don laid her hand on Viola’s arm. 

“ Now, Harry, ” she said, ‘ ‘ tell me if you know who this is ?” 

Harry roused himself, uncrossed his arms, and looked 
inquiringly from his cousin to Viola. She blushed and smiled 
a little, and as she smiled a faint memory like a whiff of 
scent came to him, and faded away again. He struggled 
to recall it in vain, and then a thought seemed to strike 
him. 

“ Not Miss Sedley ?” 

He rose with a pleased smile, and went over to her in the 
corner. 

“I am very glad I came in this afternoon,” he said, “for I 
am most interested to renew an old acquaintance. I have 


74 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


often laugTied over that day at the ruin when you were so 
angry with Philip Dendraith ; do you remember ? It was 
splendid the way 5 ou fought him. Do you know, I can still 
see a likeness to what you were at that time, though you don’t 
look quite so like fighting as you did then,” he added, with a 
smile. 

“Oh, I hope I am not so bad-tempered now,” 
blushing. “I was always very angry if any one 
unkindly to my dog, and you know Mr. Dendraith was 
unkind to him.” 

There was a faint, very faint gleam in her eyes even now 
as she said it. 

“The old spirit has not died out,” Harry said to himself, 
with a smile; “she thinks it is dead and gone, but some day, 
when least expected, it will break out again, and in the woman 
it will mean a good deal more than in the child.” 

“I suppose you sometimes see ’your old enemy, now that 
he is at Upton Court ?” Harry continued. “ Being a rider, he 
could get over to you without much trouble across country.” 

Harry wondered why Viola blushed again so deeply and so 
painfully. He was not foolish enough to jump to the usual 
conclusion in such cases, but he did nevertheless think it 
possible that the girl had followed in the footsteps of so many 
of her sex and lost her heart to Philip Dendraith. In making 
up their old quarrel, it would be so easy for them to overdo 
it. A mere hair’s- breadth would take them across the line of 
mere reconciliation, and Philip was “ fearfully and wonder- 
fully” handsome. 

Harry felt regretful, almost indignant, at the notion of this 
possibility. From a worldly point of view Philip would, of 
course, be a brilliant match; but he was cold, self indulgent, 
cynical, with the same unbending will that he had shown 
when a mere youth, further strengthened by the easy con- 
quests which it had since brought him. Besides, Harry knew 
that Philip had lived a life or low and selfish pleasure, only 
more prudently than others, so that, while many of his com- 
panions had gone to wrack and ruin altogether, he was still 
prospering. 

But this cold prudence which had saved him was no orna- 
ment to his character in his critic’s eyes. Viola married to 
such a man was almost unthinkable, and yet (Harry said to 
himself) Society is every day bringing about these incon- 
ceivable things. The woman marries and gives no sign ; no 
one knows how the unthinkable is worked out in daily detail. 

He studied the -face beside him with great interest. It 
attracted him far more than many a girlish face which he 
would have called pretty and have forgotten again the next 
minute. Was Viola pretty ? He did not quite know. The 
appeal that her face made was new in kind, and had to be 
considered. She had a very dark skin, and her colouring 
when she blushed was rich and fine. The face gained upon 


she said, 
behaved 


ADRIENNE. 


75 


one rapidly; it was a haunting face — yes; certainly it was 
pretty;— very pretty. What had come to him? It was 
beautiful! 

Harry drew his hand across his eyes, as if he thought they 
had deceived him, but no ; in a little over twenty minutes, 
during which the conversation had been upon quite trivial 
topics, these changes of impression had taken place in him, 
and the face which he had hesitated at first to call pretty had 
acquired in his eyes an unaccountable charm. 

“ I suppose not very much has happened at your home since 
I left,” he said, musingly. “It is just the same here. I go 
away, for years; a thousand things happen to me; I see hun- 
dreds of new faces, new scenes: I have many experiences 
great and small,— and I come back to find precisely the same 
life going on as when I went away. I ask what has hap- 
pened, and I am told that old Sally is dead, and so-and-so is 
married ; that a new window has been put in the church, and 
that Lady Clevedon has built a wing to the schoolhouse ! 
But I suppose these are very important matters after all,” 
Harry added, remembering that such interests were all that 
Viola possessed. 

“I know very little of what goes on outside my own home,” 
she said. “I visit the people in our village with my mother 
sometimes, but I don’t like it ; I never know what to say, and 
I feel intmsive and uncomfortable. The people always talk 
to mother about their Heavenly Father” — Viola hesitated a 
little, for a sudden suppressed smile had flitted across Harry’s 
face, a smile not to be hidden by the moustache which Adri- 
enne used to say endeared him to his fellow-creatures so in- 
expressibly. 

He looked very grave the next minute, and expressed great 
interest in Viola’s account of her district-visiting. 

“My mother gives the cottagers soup and blankets, and she 
reads the Bible to them,” Vida continued, drawn out of her 
reserve by something simple and genial in Harry’s manner 
which no one had yet been able to resist. His dramatic power 
of entering into the feelings of others placed him in relation 
with a vast number of types of human nature and gave him a 
power over them, different from, but perhaps not less remark- 
able than, Philip Dendraith’s. It was irksome to him to have 
to retire into the timits of his own personality ; he preferred 
to explore that of others. The simple, firm outlines of Viola’s 
character, and its intense concentration, formed an attractive 
study to a mind so entirely different in type. 

“And do you think the villagers like to have the Bible read 
to them ?” he inquired gi'avely. 

“.Of course,” said Lady Clevedon, overhearing the question ; 
“there has been established an intimate relation, of the nature 
of cause and effect, between the Bible and port wine, which is 
very favourable to the propagation of the Gospel among the 
labouring classes in this country.” 


76 


THE wmo OF AZRAEL. 


“Lady Clevedon, you are really veiy naughty!” cried Mrs, 
Russell Courtenay, with one of her favourite wriggles. ‘ ‘ This 
fresh innocent mind will lose its bloom if her young ears are 
assailed with such sentiments.” 

“ Oh : she had much better listen to me than to Harry,” said 
Lady Clevedon; “ I think he really must be ‘ The Ambassador 
Extraordinary ’ (you know the book ?)” — (Mrs. Courtenay 
murmured, “Oh, yes.”) — “He has all the plausible exterior 
of that Satanic emissary, and I can vouch for the Satanic 
character of his sentiments. I thought India would have 
cooled him down” — 

(“ Not a usual result of the climate,” murmured Adrienne.) 

— “But instead of that he is worse than ever!” 

'"You seem to have been able to draw him out,” said Mrs. 
Dixie, a little annoyed ; “he never tells us what he thinks. I 
suppose he doesn’t consider us enable of understanding him.” 

“Oh! nonsense,” cried Lady (Jlevedon; “he wisely shrinks 
from your criticism.” 

“This is crushing,” said Harry, lazily. “I wonder why it 
is that a peaceable fellow like me should always be attacked. 

‘ Can you fight ? ’ ‘No.’ ‘Then come on.’ That is how the 
world treats me ! And yet I smile forgivingly upon it. 

‘ She was more than usual, calm; 

She did not give a single damn,” 

he murmured, softly quoting. 

“Mr. Lancaster, Mr. Lancaster!” cried Mrs. Courtenay, 
" re^ectez V innocence.'''' 

“I beg your pardon ?” said Harry, bending towards her in 
courteous inquiry. 

"Respectez V innocence," repeated the lady, with increased 
emphasis. 

“ Might I ask you to repeat the phrase once more ?” 

Mrs. Courtenay lost her presence of mind. 

“I said you should respect innocence, Mr. Lancaster.” 

“ Oh ! I always do,” said Harry, with an air a little shocked 
that the lady should have thought it necessary to recommend 
so obvious a duty. “Lives there a soul so black” 

“Now Harry, no more of your nonsense,” said his cousin; 
“Mrs. Ctnirtenay isn’t used to you yet, ai^ she must not be 
badgered. When are you coming over to see us ? And you, 
Adrienne ? Now don’t say you are busy; people needn’t be 
busy unless they like. Business is the mark of a feeble mind. 
Come over soon, while Viola is with me; you must get to 
know each other. I am going to make her stay longer.— No. 
my dear, you needn’t talk about your mamma,— your mam- 
ma will have to do as she is told. I tell her it’s exceedingly 
bad for a girl to be shut up and never see a living creature. 
Harry, I give you carte blanche to badger her as much as you 
like; it is just what she wants. Viola, then, will stay with 
me for the next week— (be quiet, my dear!)— and you will all 


THE SPIDER AHD THE ELY. 


77 


come over and have some tennis, or anything you like— let 
me see— the Featherstones are coming to-morrow — say on 
Wednesday, then. So that’s settled. No, Adrienne, excuse 
me, you have nothing whatever to do. Australian letters ? 
Nonsense. Haven’t- got a dress ? Borrow one of your 
mother’s.” 

“Or,” suggested Harry, “ adopt the idea of the poor woman 
whom a narrow-minded world condemned to a madhouse be- 
cause she insisted on wearing costumes made out of advertise- 
ment sheets of the Times on week-days, and brown-paper on 
Sundays.” 

“ If they were well made, I am sure they would look very 
stylish,” said Mrs. Courtenay. 

‘ ‘ But, alas ! they would have a fault quite fatal in this age 
of the worship of the Golden Calf,” said Adrienne in a tone 
which only to Harry betrayed its latent bitterness. “ No one 
could stand before them and exclaim — like Mrs. Carlyle’s 
maid before the pictures at the National Gallery— “How 
expensive !” 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

When brother and sister arrived at Clevedon Castle on the 

ednesday as arranged, Harry felt a pang of disappointment 
. at seeing only his cousins and Mrs. Russell Courtenay on the 
tennis ground. 

“ Your niece gone after all?” he asked. 

“ Oh, no; she is coming presently; she is so absurdly shy 
that I could not persuade her to be here when you arrived. 
Most ridiculous; she is going to slip in presently when you are 
all engaged in tennis, and thus escape observation. I expect 
Dick Evans and Dorothy this afternoon, and perhaps Philip 
Dendraith. Entre noiis^ I fancy he rather admires Viola, so I 
thought they might as well have an opportunity of meeting.”, 

“Augusta,” cried Adrienne, ''you condescend to the role 
of matchmaker I” 

‘ ‘ Nonsense, ” she replied ; ‘ ‘ but Viola really needs to be drawn 
out of herself. She couldn’t flirt if she tried, so I am not afraid 
of starting a siUy affair of that sort. I simply want to give 
her a little experience and savoir faire, and a polished man 
of the world like Philip Dendraith is exactly the instrument 
for my purpose. He is certain to teach her something at any 
rate, but what that will be is another matter. Do you think 
his admiration is at all serious?’’ 

Lady Clevedon raised her eyebrows. “ How can one possi- 


78 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


bly tell that in a man like Philip? What do you think of my 
niece, by the way?” Harry hesitated. “ Just so,” said Lady 
Clevedon, “ but she will improve ; her bringing- up has been so 
much against her. Her devoted mother has been the ruin of 
all that family. Poor Marion ! what a life she has had of it ; 
more than half her own fault, too. She is really never con- 
tent unless she is in trouble; I assure you it’s a fact. Now 
it’s money mattei’S, now it’s household tragedies, now it’s her 
husband’s health, now it’s those graceless sons. At present 
Viola is the source of woe.” 

“ Why, what does she do to cause anxiety?” 

“ My dear Harry, she lives; that is enough for Marion. Of 
course, the results of the girl’s training are beginning to show, 
and her mother is quite surprised. !^ally, the foolishness of 
women is something quite amazing. Talk about female suf- 
frage! I’d rather enfranchise the idiot asylums; yes, and I 
would go so far as to add the clerical profession !” 

“ Does Mrs. Sedley regret her daughter’s shyness ?” in- 
quired Adrienne. 

“She sees that she is too sensitive, as she calls it. The girl 
shows a singular preference for her own society, which I 
should say was anything but. entertaining. Her mother de- 
clares that she thinks !'' Lady Clevedon laughed. “The 
motherly ingenuity of the idea quite charms me. When I 
am not angry with Marion she amuses me mightily. Poor 
woman, she came to me almost in tears the other day, because 
she said Viola had got into her head that she wanted to earn 
her own living. It was really' too funny; I laughed till I 
could laugh no longer, and poor Marion looked on without a 
smile, and when I had finished she repeated the thing over 
again, in exactly the same tone of extreme concern; and if 
Arabella hadn’t come meandering in at the moment I don’t 
know what would have happened to me. ” 

“Why does Viola want to earn her own living?” asked 
Adrienne. 

Lady Clevedon shrugged her shoulders. “My dear, why 
does she blush if you speak to her suddenly ? Why does she 
allow her mother to dress her in pale lavender sprigs on a 
white ground ?” 

“ She ought to make a stand for brown paper,” said Harry.’ 

“Infinitely preferable!” cried his cousin. 

“Well, Dorothy, so you have managed to come: that’s 
right. How bonny you look! Whom are you going to anni- 
hilate this time with that vindictive-looking racket of yours?” 

A tennis-set having been arranged between Dorothy and 
Harry Lancaster on the one side, and Dick Evans and Adri- 
enne on the other, the players took their places, Dorothy 
panting for the fray. Dick was a stoutly-made reddish- 
haired young fellow, with a decided, intelligent manner, and a 
pleasant smile. His capacious head with square brow indi- 
cated the direction of his powers. He had that sublimated 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 


79 


common-sense, that power of drawing accurate deductions 
from closely observed data, which when rightly cultivated 
marks, according to Professor Huxley, the scientific intellect. 
His tennis-playing was eminently scientific, “ screws” being 
very plentiful in his “service,” as was evident from Doro- 
thy’s frequent exclamations of rage. 

During the game Philip Dendraith arrived in tennis cos- 
tume and joined Lady Clevedon and Mrs. Courtenay in the 
shade of a beech-tree where they were sitting, watching the 
battle. 

He was even handsomer now than he was in the old days 
when Viola first knew him. His figure had filled out, mving 
him a more manly look ; his manner, always polished, was 
now as perfect as any manner can be that does not take its 
rise in warmth of heart and wealth of sympathy. He was a 
man whom Sir Roger de Coverley would have censm*ed very 
severely, for “ preferring the reputation of wit and sense to 
that of honesty and virtue.” He would have counted among 
those who, according to that moralist, alone deserved hang- 
ing; those men who are continually “offending against such 
quick admonitions as their own souls give them, and blunt- 
ing the fine edge of their minds, in such a manner that they 
are no more shocked at vice and folly than men of slower 
capacities.” 

Philip Dendraith had certainly never been shocked at vice 
in his life, and at folly he laughed. He could listen to a tale 
of cruelty without the slightest thrill of anger against the 
perpetrator of the deed, or of pity for the sufferer. It never 
seemed to strike him to imagine himself 'in the place of the 
victim. He took his stand among the powerful, and had no 
fellow-feeling for the weak— whether weak by circumstance 
or by nature. 

“Allow me to congratulate jmu on your picturesque appear- 
ance,” he said, as he raised his cap to the two ladies; “ 1 feel 
as if I were about to take an unworthy part in a ‘Watteau.’ 
The blue green foliage behind you makes a most character- 
istic background.” 

“ Oh, it’s only the background^'''' cried Mrs. Courtenay, gaily 
aggrieved; “ and we were fiattering ourselves that zre formed 
the attractive part of the picture.” 

“ Nor were you deceived,” said Philip; “ there could be no 
doubt of your efficiency; but the background might have 
failed.” 

“ Mr. Dendraith always manages to wriggle out of a diffi- 
culty somehow,” said Mrs. Courtenay. 

‘ ‘ "He more generally walks out of it, I think. Arabella. Well 
played ! Adrienne, you must bestir yourselk Did you ever 
see anything like the energy of that child ; her whole soul is 
in the game.” 

Dorothy certainly was worth watching as she sprang now 


80 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


to this side, now to that, her auburn hair flying behind her, 
her cheeks flushed, her eyes sjDarkling. 

“ I wish I could see Viola losing herself like that in a game,” 
said Lady Clevedon. 

“ I thought your niece was to be here to-day,” said Philip. 

“ So she is; I doiflt know why she doesn’t come out.” 

“ I will go and lead the lamb to the slaughter,” said Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

“Only once have I had the pleasure of seeing Miss Sedley 
since I met her at Upton,” Philip observed, vnen Arabella 
was gone. “I have called three or four times at the Manor 
House, but till Saturday last she never api)eared, and when 
she did I could only get a few monosyllables out of her. She 
has nevertheless the makings of a very charming woman; 
there is a peculiar quality about her, not easy to describe, a 
particular kind of coldness that suggests hidden fire, and 
women of that type are always attractive. I want to make 
way in your niece’s good graces ; she ^ite takes my fancy, 
upon my word.” Something in Lady Clevedon ’s movement 
of the eyebrows made Philip hasten to add, “ Not that there 
is anything astonishing in that. I have no doubt Miss Sedley 
is universally admired.” 

A half-satirical bow was followed by an amused exclama- 
tion, for crossing the lawn came arm in arm, as if on the 
closest tenns of confidence, Viola and Arabella, Viola walking 
as straight as a monument, suffering the sprightly Arabella 
to wreath herself about her — obviously because she was un- 
able to prevent it. 

“You have chosen your co-visitors with infinite discre- 
tion, ” observed Philip, with a thin smile. 

“Yes, they are a delicious pair, and would you believe it, 
one is almost as shy as the other. Well, Viola, my dear, 
weazled out of your hole at last*; you have lost the best half 
of the afternoon over your headache.” 

‘ ‘ Have you a headache ?” said Philip, in a tone full of con- 
cern. “ I think it is very good of you to give us a glimpse of 
you at all in that case.” He spoke in the low, flattering tones 
that most women found so fascinating, and of which none 
could fail to feel the charm. Viola looked up ; it sounded so 
exactly as if he were sincere. His dark eyes, fixed admir- 
ingly upon her, offered no further clue to his meaning. If 
ever eyes were given to conceal the thoughts, Philip Den- 
draith’s were bestowed on him for that purpose.” 

“ Mr. Lancaster, what are you about ?” Dorothy’s voice 
rang out in dismay; “ that ball would have been out a long 
way, if you hadn’t taken it.” 

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Harry; “I’m afraid it has lost 
us the set.” 

And it had. The players came up from the tennis ground 
(Dorothy disconsolate), and joined the Watteau group, under 
the beech-treCf 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 


81 


“ You seemed rather to lose your head at the last,” Philip 
said, addressing Harry, wiih a keen look in those inscrutable 
eyes of his. 

“ Impossible,” returned Harry, flinging himself on a scarlet 
rug at Mrs. Courtenay’s feet; ‘‘I haven’t such a thing to 
lose.” 

“ Our dear Mr. Lancaster, if we are to take his word for it, 
has run all to heart,” said Arabella. 

“He had better look out and not lose it then,” said Dick, 
“ or he’ll have nothing left to steer by.” 

“ Except the advice of my friends," and that is always to be 
had. A man minus both head and heart is such a rarity, that 
he might possibly also distinguish himself from the common 
herd by consenting to take it,” said Philip. 

“ Not he,” threw in Harry; “ it requires the full power of 
both those organs to. persuade a man that the rest of the 
world are not all bigger fools than himself.” 

“ A strange use to put one’s head and heart to,” observed 
Dick self-dethronement. ” 

“The highest human achievement, I assure you,” said 
Harry, whether from conviction or, as Philip declared, out of 
pure “ cussedness,” no one could determine. 

Adrienne looked at him inquiringly in vain. 

“That is the ever-beautiful doctrine of Renunciation in a 
new form,” she said seriously. 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Courtenay chimed in, “ always sacriflcing our- 
selves for others, don’t you know ? Of course that is so Chris- 
tian — isn’t it?’’ 

“ WeU, no, I don’t think it ^s,” said Harry; “and I think, 
moreover, that it is a method of procedure "extremely incon- 
venient for ‘others.’ If people, instead of indulging in useless 
moral austerities, would be so Idnd as to acquaint themselves, 
for instance, with the simplest laws of human well being, 
they would be doing more good to the ill-used bodies and 
souls of their fellow-men than if they had themselves flat- 
tened out by steam-rollers, or sent through the most painful 
of sausage -making machines. The human being becomes 
comparatively valueless as mince-meat.” 

“O Mr. Lancaster!” cried Arabella, “buo I do so think 
we ought to try to be unselfish, don’t you know ?” 

“ I tliink we ought first to try not to be blockheads,” said 
Harry. “ I know it is a hard saying — far harder than ‘ Re- 
nounce ’ or ‘ Surrender;’ but it is the message of the age for 
all firm and upright souls, better than all the self-effacing 
doctrines which condemn the individual (and therefore the 
race) to the ridiculous position of the egg-and-breadcrumbed 
whiting, whose energies, arguing in a circle, are employed in 
industriously devouring his own tail.” 

“ Listen to him!” cried Arabella. 

‘ ‘ Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian, ” mui'mured 


82 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


Philip; at which there was a chuckle from Harry and a laugh 
from the others, Viola and Dorothy excepted. 

“Now, Mr. Dendraith,” cried Ai’abella, “do tell us what 
you think about it. I confess I cling to the old idea in this 
matter, and prefer the humble office of the whiting (though it 
may be rather foolish) to the enhghtened selfishness that Mr, 
] Lancaster so ably advocates.” 

Philip shmgged his shoulders. “I fear I shall shock the 
company when I say that my idea of life is to make oneself as 
comfortable as possible, and only to injure one’s neighbours 
as much as is necessary to secure that important end. I may 
add, that I differ from most people in this matter merely in 
regard to frankness.” 

“ Instead of some robust, well-founded principle which might 
hold its own against this Philosophy of selfishness, we have 
nothing but a sickly pseudo-Christian morality addressed to 
the little personal righteousness or desire for righteousness of 
each candidate for Heaven, so that in the midst of a predatory 
society we possess little or nothing to counteract the univer- 
sal scramble but a few of these absurd and heroic whitings 
painfully eating their own tails. As well try to cure the 
world’s evils with a set of dancing dervishes I” 

“I say, Dorothy, what do you think of all this heresy?’' 
asked her brother. 

“Oh, Mr. Lancaster is always saying some extraordinary 
thing that nobody else ever dreamt of; it doesn’t matter,” 
returned Dorothy cheerfully, at which there was a shout of 
laughter at Harry’s expense. 

“ I fear it does matter, though,” cried Adrienne, seeing 
Viola's look of horror and dismay. “You are working 
against the noblest spirit of the age; you pluck the high- 
est motive out of the hearts of our most devoted men and 
women.” 

“ I deny it,” said Harry; “ I say to them only, in the name 
of humanity, don’t mistake mere self-mutilation for the ser- 
vice of man. The chain is only as strong as its weakest link. 
You are a link in the chain of the general life, and your busi- 
ness is to see that it is a good one. In the name of Heaven, 
not the whiting-trick !” 

Adrienne shook her head. “A dangerous doctrine,” she 
said, “too flattering to our innate self-love.” 

“ That is a personal view of the matter,” returned Harry, 
“ and shows the moral flaw in the doctrine of pure altruism. 
You care, after all, chiefly for your virtue and its future pros- 
pects. A personal righteousness is to my mind a mere toy; 
a doll stuffed with sawdust, which one hugs to one’s mistaken 
heart. We shall have to throw away our dolls, for they are 
all fetiches; yes, even our new, ingenious, flaxen-haired, blue- 
eyed doll with the sweet expression, who says, ‘ Papa, Mamma, 
no jam for me, jam for Tommy.’ ” 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 


83 


The idea of this ingenious creature amused Dorothy, and 
her comments on the subject shortly reduced the assembly to 
a frame of mind entirely unsuited to discussmg ethical ques- 
tions. Their thoughts returned to tennis, and several sets 
were played, in one of which Viola was induced to take part. 
After it v^as over, Philip suggested a stroll round the gardens, 
and Viola, too shy to dissent, made a sign of acquiescence. 
Every detail of that miserable interview with her father re- 
turned to her memory, as Philip with flattering deference led 
her round the beautiful old e:ardens, where the sun was 
drawing the rich scent from the roses, and filling the air with 
a glow that only can be compared among things human to 
that happiness which is said to visit none but the loftiest 
souls, and these it only brushes lightly with its wings, as if 
an angel were passing on his heavenward way. 

“ I ought to smile and flatter and try to charm this man,” 
the girl was saying bitterly to herself; “ that is my business 
as a woman : otherwise — ” But Viola did not smile, except un- 
designedly sometimes when Philip’s talk entertained her 
against her will. She maintained a politely cold demeanour, 
appearing a little to lose her shyness in the yet stronger feel- 
ing of womanly pride. The old childish dislike to Philip had 
of course lost its venom, but those memories were not with- 
out their influence on her present feelings, and these were 
further complicated by the knowledge of the momentary 
murderous impulse which had so nearly caused her enemy’s 
death. The remorse and the desire of atonement were still 
potent. Philip, who, according to his habit, led the way and 
decided details, discovered a sequestered spot among the 
windings of the shrubberies, where there was a seat, and 
here he suggested that they should rest and meditate. 

The spot seemed consecrated to the Goddess of Indolence, 
so warm and still was the air, so sleepy were the sounds of 
humming bees and droning insects. 

Viola sat down, while Philip, finding his position on the seat 
too cramped, asked permission- to lie upon the grass at her 
feet. 

“Now this is what I call true philosophy,” he said lazily; 
‘ ‘ the man who knows not how to be idle, does not know how 
to live.” 

“ Most people know how to be idle, I think,” said Viola. 

“ Pardon me, but I think there are very few,” said Philip. 
“Italians understand the art, but the Teutonic races are 
burnt up with a fire of action that makes our country the 
most glorious and the most uncomfortable in Europe.” 

“ Only just now Mr. Lancaster was saying that ours is, the 
only language that has the word ‘comfort’ in it at all,” said 
Viola, falling into the trap that her companion had set for 
her. 

“ Oh yes, we have comfort in our chairs and tables, per- 
haps, and that is no small matter; still it is not everything. 


84 


TEE Wim OF AZRAEL. ' 


We eat well and sleep softly, but how dearly we pay 
these things I Is there not something a little incon^uous in 
the idea of a man toiling hard all his life to enable him at last 
to buy an easy-chair ?” 

Viola smiled, and Philip smiled too, but after quite a differ- 
ent fashion. He saw clearly enough that the girl had no in- 
tention of paying the usual tribute to his fascinations, but the 
omission only attracted him. He was tired of girls who could 
be had for the asking, and less. 

It would be a delightful task to kindle those beautiful eyes 
with an unknown emotion, and to make the proud heart beat 
more quickly in its owner’s despite. That would be a victory 
worth having; a genuine tribute to his power and skill. 

Phihp had scarcely believed in the existence of a girl able 
to resist the temptation of wealth and position, but he was 
half disposed to forswear his customary cynicism in Viola’s 
favour. He was too keen to be uncompromisingly cynical. 
He also saw that, in order to arouse in her the feelings he de-^ 
sired, her ideas must first be led to impersonal subjects, so* 
that her present hostihty might be lulled. His studies of human 
nature made him calculate that hostility was a better ground 
to work upon than indifference. Hostility implied feeling, 
and feeling was always fruitful of event. 

Again, women’s hostility was of a passionate unfounded 
order, that might just as reasonably be amity ; therefore it was 
capable of transformation. 

Philip did not think all this out in so many words : the ideas 
floated through his mind as idly as the flies drifted through 
the atmosphere; while all the time he went on talking, wait- 
ing at intervals for Viola’s answers, and treating them, when 
they half -unwillingly came, with a deference that was very 
flattering in a man of his experience and acknowledged power. 

Her expression had begun to change; already she was for- 
getting herself in what her companion was saying, and 
Philip now found a new subtle charm in the face : so much so 
that he began to wonder if he should be able to keep up the 
judicial spirit of the experiment while he sought to summon 
expressions yet more beautiful to the deep eyes and the 
proud lips. 

The doubt did not all detract from the interest of the pas- 
time. After a while he ventured to leave the impersonal top- 
ics which had served their purpose so well, and to broach the 
subject of the past and its memories. 

“ How you used to hate me in those days!” he said, with a 
sigh; “ it was really rather strange, I think, for I used to be 
quite fond of you; and one imagines that love begets love, 
does one not ?” 

“ I have never forgiven myself for what I did,” said Viola, 
“ and the memory of it haunts me to this day.” 

“ My dear Miss Sedley, you distress me,” cried Philip, rais- 


THE SPIDER AND THE ELY, 


85 


ing himself on one elbow ; “I had no idea you took the mat- 
tor so seriously.” 

“ I have reason to,” she said, shaking her head. 

“ But why should you reproach yourself ? Here I am safe 
and sound, and uncommonly jolly (especially at this mo- 
ment), into the bargain.” 

“ No thanks to me,” said Viola. 

“ Yes, for present mercies thanks to you particularly,” he 
retuimed. 

She looked at him with a puzzled air. Could he really 
care, however slightly, for her society,— he who had travelled 
all over the world, and mingled with the brilliant and beauti- 
ful of all countries ? 

She gave a faint movement of the shoulders, as if she 
abandoned the problem in despaii'. But the conversation, 
the mere presence of an intelligent human being to one in 
her monotonous circumstances, was sufficiently intoxicating 
without the aid of flattery. 

“ If you still reproach yourself for that old offence,” Philip 
continued, ‘‘ I think it is high time that it should be expunged 
from the list of your sins. I forgive you ; there’s my hand 
on it; and now you have no excuse for thinking of it any 
more.” 

“Oh, but you don’t know, you don't know,” cried Viola, 
d rawing away the hand he had endeavoured to take. ‘ ‘ I can’t 
let you forgive me in ignorance of my real offence.” 

Philip looked up. 

“Do tell me what you mean; I thought I did know your 
offence, such as it was ; I suppose you didn’t attempt to put 
prussic acid in my medicine, or resort to perfume poisons after 
the manner of the Borgias? If you did, upon my honour, you 
would be an entrancing! y interesting person !” 

“ Interesting because I was criminal !” cried V^iola. 

“ In this age of mediocrity even crime becomes interesting; 
not because it is crime, but because it is dramatic. There is 
in us all an intense craving for the dramatic, because we are 
doomed to lives of such monotonous respectability, such deadly 
dulness. The poor man takes to drinking because his home 
is detestable; the rich man plunges into dissipation and goes 
to the devil because irritating social laws make every other 
course unbearable. I fear I startle you, MissSedley; bub if 
you think over what I have said I believe you will come some 
day to admit that there is truth in this view. The Pliilistines 
and the gi’eat middle-class— backbone of the county— have 
much to answer for !” 

“Every other course unbearable !”— had she heard aright? 

The world was seized with an attack of vertigo; Good had 
flung its arm round the waist of E\ul, and the two were waltz- 
ing together as if they had been partners in the dance from 
time immemorial. Slie scarcely understood what Philip meant 
by social laws ; “she could not see the town for houses.” Her 


86 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


whole life had been passed under the shadow of these laws, 
and she was unable to conceive a state of things where they 
were absent or different. In any case she felt it her duty to 
struggle against the thoughts that Philip had suggested. She 
did not believe that he was a good man, and therefore it was 
necessary to be on her ^ard against his cleverness. 

‘•A truce to these heresies,” said Philip, with a smile, 
guessing her state of mind ; “ I want to hear your confession. 

I assure you of my forgiveness beforehand, if that is of any 
value in your eyes. Now, tell me, what was the secret 
enormity of which you were guilty at the time of my acci- 
dent ?” 

“ You talk lightly of the matter, because you don’t believe 
I could be guilty or ” 

She hesitated and coloured painfully. 

“Let me help you,” said Philip, more and more interested; 
“ you really did put poison in my medicine ?— is that it ?” 

"“Oh, no, no! not so deliberate as that,” cried the prl, 
thrusting away the idea as if it were something tangible; 
“but when you were sitting at the edge of that window in 
the ruin, you remember, and you made me so angi*y ; well, for 
a moment, as I flung myself upon you, I actually meant to 
push you over if I could. It was a moment of insanity, but a 
thousand lifetimes could not blot it out; it is with me, now 
and for aU eternity.” 

Philip looked at her, deeply pondering. 

By some instinct that comes at the right moment to born 
rulers of men, he felt that he ought not to make too light of 
this matter. Viola’s sense of guilt gave him a valuable handle 
by which he could work upon her feelings. He looked away 
without speaking, and allowed the silence to prolong itself 
painfully. 

“You don’t think me interesting for committing a crime 
when it comes to the point,” said Viola at length, fixing her 
eyes straight before her. 

Philip heaved a long sigh. 

“ Believe me, I admire the force of character that prompts 
to vigorous actions, but I confess I am sorry and surprised 
to learn this of you.” 

Smarting under the implied reproach, Viola was yet almost 
relieved to find that he did not take a light view of the 
matter. 

Philip’s instinct had been faultless. 

“ At the same time you must not forget that you were a 
mere child at the time, and therefore not quite responsible. 
Such an impulse would be impossible to you now.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course— at least I trust and hope so; but that 
memory makes me frightened of myself. I don’t know what 
may be in me.” 

“It would be interesting to find out,” muttered Philip, 
more to himself than to her. 


A WOUKma HYPOTHESIS. 87 

As he spoke, the sound of footsteps disturbed the serenity 
of the scene, and Philip made an impatient gesture. 

It was only Mrs. Russell Courtenay and Harry, who were 
taking a stroll round the garden together. 

^ “ Oh, here you are again!” cried rhe lady. “ How comfort- 
able you look ! — Mr. Dendraith, I do think you are the laziest 
person I ever met.” 

“ Do you not know the wisdom of|the Persians, Mrs. Courte- 
nay, who say that you should never walk if you can ride, 
never ride if you can sit, and never sit if you can lie. ” 

“ And never live if you can die, they ought to add,” said 
Harry, “if they want to be consistent.” 

“I expect they don’t,” said Philip. “Miss Sedley and I 
have been talking over old times,” he went on, “and we have 
come to the conclusion that the past is a mistake, and that 
there is no time like the present.” 

As this was a sheer invention on the spur of the moment, 
Viola looked at him in astonishment. 

“ Miss Sedley, you make a very bad conspirator,” he said, 
laughing; “you don’t enter into the spirit of the creative 
genius at all; you should never stare in a thunderstruck 
manner at such a simple jeii d esprit. I assure you it is dis- 
concerting in the highest degree. ” 

“ Don’t spoil that beautiful innocence,” cried Mrs. Courte- 
nay. “ Well, Mr. Lancaster, I think our motto is ‘ Excelsior,’ 
is it not ?” 

“Are you not coming for a stroll too ?” asked Harry, ad- 
dressing the others. 

“I abominate that motto,” said Philip. 

“ Well, good-bye; and I do hope you won’t propound any 
more heresies to Miss Sedley. I don’t know what her 
mamma would say,” cried Mrs. Courtenay. 

“ Wouldn’t it be pleasant to go for a short stroll too?” Viola 
suggested ; “ the great heat is over now.” 

“ What, you too tormented with this disease of energy 1 So 
be it then: let us away; your will, of course, is my law.” 

Harry heard their footsteps following, and rejoiced. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A WORKING HYPOTHESIS. 

Philip Dendraith had never been troubled with shyness. 
He did not hesitate to present himself every day at the Castle, 
openly telling Lady Clevedon that her house had so many 
attractions to offer an idle man that she must take the con- 
sequences, He made no secret of his preference for Viola’s 


88 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


society, singling her out with flattering persistence, and put- 
ting forth all his powers of fascination. She had begun to 
exert a very potent spell over him, rather to his own dismay. 

As for Viola, her manner was already improving under the 
influence of the new experience. The first coat of paint had 
been laid on, as her aunt said. 

When Harry called one afternoon he found, to his annoy- 
ance, that Philip was as usual among the groups under the 
beech-tree on the tennis-gr ound. He and Viola w'^ere standing 
a little apart, Viola playing nervously with a bunch of June 
roses which she had in her hand. 

“ Do you remember,” Harry overheard him saying to her, 
‘‘ do you remember yesterday afternoon that you dropped a 
rose you were wearing, and you walked back along the w^ay 
you had come, in hopes of finding it ?” 

Viola gave a gesture of assent. 

“ I had not the courage then to confess my sin (let us repeat 
our stroll of yesterday, by the bye) ; but it lies heavily on my 
conscience, and I am come to-day to ask for absolution. 
Here is the lost treasure.” 

Harry saw him bring out of his pocket a withered rose, 
just as the two figures turned a corner and disappeared into 
the shrubberies. He would have given worlds to hear what 
followed. 

When they presently returned the rose was still in Philip’s 
I'and. What did that mean ? Had he obtained absolution 
and leave to keep the rose as his own ? Or had she treated 
the whole incident as too trivial to notice ? For the first sug- 
gestion, Viola seemed too repellent ; for the second, too sl.y. 

As often happens in life, circumstances must have obliged 
her to do violence to one side or other of her nature. 

Harry pondered very deeply upon the state of matters at 
the Castle. He suspected than Lady Clevcdon had been urged 
by her brother to bring about a marriage between Viola 
and the heir of Upton Court. No marriage could be more 
unsuitable. For Viola it could not fail to prove disastrous; 
she was as a bird in the hands of the fowler; Philip’s power 
was of a cold and watchful order, not to be gainsaid. 

Perhaps in the long-run her force of character might be no 
less than his, but it was of a different kind. She was open to 
pain, while he was insensible. He was a man, she was a 
woman; he, a man more than usually callous, more than 
usually overbearing; she a woman more than usually sensi- 
tive, more than usually disposed to prefer the claims of others 
to her own. 

“Will nobody play the part of Perseus to this Androm- 
eda?” thought Henry. “Ah! how powerless a man is to 
help a woman, however much he may wish to do sol— esjje- 
cially if ’’—Harry pulled himself up abruptly. “ This comes 
of idleness.” he said to himself impatiently; “ the sooner von 
return to your duties the better, my friend ! Have you steered 


A WORKING HYPOTHESIS. 


89 


your course so far prosperously, with philosophy for your 
compass and hope for your lode-star, only to fall into this pit- 
fall after all ? It won’t do; it is folly, accursed folly, and will 
only lead to heart ache ! You can’t do things by halves, so if 
you are wise you will escape while there is yet time. But is 
there yet time ? Don’t ask yourself that question, you fool, 
or you are lost; and don’t flatter yourself you can do anything 
to help her. As for the appealing look that you see in her 
eyes, that is simply the effect of your own ' imagination, the 
result of ‘expectant attention,’ as Dick Evans would say. 
Philip is too much for her powers of resistance; her will 
flutters helplessly at the call of his. Ah ! it is an iniquitous 
piece of work altogether.” 

On the next occasion that Harry went to Clevedon, Mr. 
Sedley was there, making himself agreeable to Arabella, and 
behaving in his best and sweetest manner. This was an evil 
portent. He had proposed a walk to the sea, and Harry was 
asked to join the expedition. 

As Viola and Philip were of the party be assented, -and he 
had the pleasure of listening for two long miles to the not 
very interesting conversation of Mr. Sedley while the other 
couple walked ahead. Mr. Sedley was inclined to hang back 
to examine the crops, about which he had much to say. 
These were now in their freshest and greenest stage, gleaming 
and glistening under the blandishments of the sun, which 
seemed to be enticing the young life to new and ever new 
development, to end, as Harry moodily thought, in the final 
massacre of harvest. 

The parable was painfully obvious. Seldom had he felt 
more sad and depressed tlian he did to-day amidst these sunny 
lands, where peace and plenty beamed with rosy midsummer 
faces, while the sea sang its eternal slumber song a few hun- 
dred feet below. 

In another month or less he would be in another country, 
taking his part in anew drama, and alas! in that new drama 
he felt not the faintest interest. 

Life seemed a miserable tantalizing, disappointing failure, 
full of heart-ache and tragedy; the sunniest temperament in 
the world could not save one from the universal doom. 

So little would suffice for happiness, thought Harry 1 Free- 
dom, work, leisure, music, friendship, and — love. He did not 
demand fame or fortune, luxury or power; only those essen- 
tially human requirements, without which no life is happy 
or complete. 

In consequence of Mr. Sedley’s delays the other two had 
now gone a long way ahead, and Harry watched them near- 
ing the cliff’s edge, and the point where the pathway of de- 
scent began. A superstitious feeling possessed him that if 
they went down that descent together. Viola's fate was sealed. 
It would symbolize the future. He tried to urge his com- 
panion forward, but Mr. Sedley was relating an anecdote, and 


90 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


would not be hurried. In fact he found it necessary to pause 
now and then for greater emphasis. 

Muttering an unintelligible apology, Harry broke away 
and set off at a run. But he was too late. He saw Philip 
hold out his hand, Viola place hers in it, and then the two 
went down together. 

Harry felt as if something were tightening about his heart, 
as he stood there facing the breezes that came freshly up 
from the sea. 

The sunshine was beating upon the sweet down grass and 
flowers just as before, and the sea murmured mournfully in 
the bright loveliness of the scene; “the gladness is taken 
away, and the joy out of the plentiful fleld.” Oh! the folly, 
the madness, of staking one’s whole life upon one human 
being among the millions, so that the very heavens and earth 
might be blotted out, or left dark and ruined in their places! 

The folly and the inevitableness of it ! 

“I wonder what is the matter with Harry,” Adrienne said 
to Dick Evans, whose friendship for her brother made him a 
suitable confidant on this topic. “ I never saw him so moody 
and distracted ; I can’t think what’s come to him.” 

“I suppose he hasn’t got a rash anywhere?” inquired the 
scientific Dick, thoughtfully. But Adrienne laughed at this 
suggestion. 

“Liver maybe out of order,” said Dick. “Does he eat 
well?” 

“Like a cormorant. No, it isn’t his liver. I think (if he 
is to be out of sorts, poor boy !) it would be more convenient 
if it were from a housekeeping point of view.” 

“ He must be in love,” said Dick, stooping at last from the 
pinnacle of science. 

“Nonsense!” cried Adrienne, startled. “Oh, dear? I hope 
not: it would be such a serious matter with him, and I don’t 
see how it could be otherwise than unfortunate. You know 
that he has only a couple of hundreds a year besides his 
pay.” 

“Don’t distress yourself in this anticipatory manner, 
Adrienne,” advised Dick; “I put forth the suggestion merely 
as a working hypothesis.” 

That working hypothesis haunted Adrienne aU night. She 
longed to speak to her brother and comfort him if she could, 
for her nature was essentially sympathetic ; but Harry made 
some nonsensical reply to every tentative remark, and she 
had, as usual, to give in. 

Mrs. Dixie, unaccustomed to her son’s new mood, laughed 
inappropriately when he was remarking to the effect that all 
is vanity; and when she discovered that Harry actually meant 
that all was vanity, she had a whispei’ed consultation with 
Adrienne about camomile pills, and wondered if he would be 
very angry if she sent for the doctor. 


A wonxma hypothesis. 


91 


In spite of his wise reflections, the young man went the 
next day to Clevedon. Apparently some arrangement for 
prolonging Viola’s visit had been come to on the occasion of 
her father’s call, for Harry found with distress that she was 
not, after all, to leave at the end of the week. This looked 
very like a conspiracy between brother and sister, of which 
the girl was to be the victim. Sorely she needed a champion, 
but who was to take that difficult post? Harry did what he 
could: he tried to prevent too many solitary wanderings 
with Philip, regardless of the latter’s frowns ; and he did his 
best to turn Viola’s attention from her admmer, or to rivet it, 
if that were possible, upon himself. 

There was very little to be done, and Harry feared that 
Lady Clevedon would be annoyed at his interference, care- 
fully as he tried to veil it. 

Philip at this period was in his happiest mood, — not at all a 
good sign, thought Harry, especially as he seldom mentioned 
Viola’s name. He was loud in his praises of the host and 
hostess. As for Lady Clevedon, she was one of the most 
agreeable women Philip had ever met; and, ye gods, wasn’t 
she sharp! 

If Harry seemed moody and out of sorts in the bosom of 
his family, he took care not to let that accusation be made 
against him elsewhere. Philip, above all, must not suspect 
his secret. 

“I will say this for Lady Clevedon,” said Philip, expan- 
sively, — “ she knows how to make her house attractive better 
than any one I ever met ; and what women she picks up ! 
Arabella is simply bewildering !” 

“So her host seems to think— a man who would ‘ rather face 
a crocodile than meet a ladies’ school I’ I believe that when 
all secrets are made known, that poor fellow will be found to 
have undergone excruciating agony on account of Arabella.” 

“Hail Arabella I” exclaimed Philip, raising an imaginary 
bumper to his lips; “tricksy, wicksy Arabella, sweet and 
stylish Arabella, who would not love thee, Arabella!” 

“ Poor woman ! I am sure she does her best to please you, ' 
you ungrateful fellow 1” 

“ I am tired of women who try to please me,” said Philip, 
stretching himself lazily; “it’s quite extraordinary how they 
will run after a man, m these days of universal competition! 
The m ii’riage-market is overstocked; a woman has to get 
marrie 1 at all hazards, and she will stick at nothing in the 
wav of business. A man must be circumspect indeed to escape 
the" dangers that beset him in the highways of society. ‘He 
that fleeth from the worse of the fear shall fall into the pit ; and 
he that getteth up out of the pit shall be taken in the snare.’ ” 

“ Well done !” exclaimed Harry. “ I didn’t know you could 
quote Scripture.” 

“ My dear fellow, I was brought up on it; perhaps that may 
account for my cynicism regarding the adorable sex. How- 


92 


THE wma OF AZBAEL. 


ever, I need no excuse ; if you had run the gauntlet with as 
many mothers of daughters as I have, you would be a blas- 
phemer too. They are simply pirates on the high seas.” 

‘ ‘ It must be hard lines on a girl who doesn’t want to be 
flung at a man’s head to have a predatory mother.” 

‘‘ Show me that girl, and I will wear her in my heart of 
hearts.” 

“Well, without aspiring for that honoimable post for my 
sister, I may point to her, — and then there is Miss Sedley.” 

Philip smiled. “ Miss Sedley is inexperienced, and she has 
been seriously brought up.” 

“I doubt if all the mothers in Christendom would have 
made her into a fisher of men !” Philip shook his head. 

“ Lives there a woman who is not Fortune’s slave? Upon 
my soul, I believe (with the exception of one or two who 
don't know anything about fife) that such a being does not 
exist !” 

“She must be a considerable heroine, I admit,” said Harry; 
“ for Foi'tune is hard upon women who refuse her obeisance, 
and in point of fact I suppose even a woman must live! My 
sister, at least, goes so far as to hint it. ” 

“Well, I suppose she must, in spite of Talleyrand 1” said 
Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders. “ Henry* VHI. when 
he cleared away the monasteries might have left the con- 
vents, I think.” 

“ Do you? Ask my sister and Mrs. Lincoln what they think 
on that subject.” 

“Oh! Mrs. Lincoln’s eccentricity puts her out of court,” 
said Philip. 

The appearance of Viola at this juncture interrupted the 
colloquy. Philip sprang up and waved her to his place on the 
seat, and Harry rose also. 

“Please don’t move: my mother is here— she came about 
two hours ago ; and Aunt Augusta says will you come in and 
see her, Mr. Dendraith?” 

“With the greatest pleasure; but how cruel of her to send 
such a messenger !” cried Philip, allowing his meaning to be 
guessed by the ingenious. “ I.ancaster, try and be enter- 
taining enough to keep Miss Sedley till I return;” and he 
strolled off with his easy swinging walk across the grass. 

“ Philip has set me a task I don’t feel at all equal to,” said 
Harry, piercing a plantain through the heart with his stick. 

“Never mind;” Viola returned, “ you are always entertain- 
ing.” 

“A man can take no heavier burden upon himself than the 
reputation of a buffoon,” said Harry; “never more— though 
the role of chief mourner would better become him— may he 
lay it down.” 

“Are you a chief mourner ?” asked Viola, her voice soften- 
ing at the call for sympathy. 


A WOUKma HYPOTHESIS. 


93 


“I am indeed,” said Harry, “and sole mourner too, if that 
is not paradoxical.” 

There was a pause; and then the very atmosphere around 
seemed to throb, as Harry heard his own words escape him : 
y My trouble is on your account.” 

“On my account !” 

Her surprise made him add hastily, 

“I ought not to have said this much, as I can’t say more; 
—in fact, I fear I am very impertinent to speak at all : it was 
not premeditated.” 

She looked bewildered. 

“I wish you would tell me frankly what you mean,” she 
said. “You don’t know of any impending misfortune for me 
or mine, do you ? No; if you did, you could scarcely take it 
so much to heart.” 

“ There you mistake,” said Harry; “but — ” he pressed his 
hand to his brow, — “I ought really not to have spoken in 
this way. Forget and forgive it.” 

It was impossible to speak out, it seemed so underhand, so 
mean, especially since he had a new and selfish motive to pre- 
vent the marriage. 

If Philip had now won the girl’s heart and was trying to 
win her hand, what right had any one to interfere? It was not 
as if she were actually being forced into the marriage. On 
the other hand, could this inexperienced creature, brought 
up fo submit her own will in all things, be regarded as a free 
agent, when people like Lady Clevedon, Philip Dendraith, 
Mrs. Sedley, and even Arabella were consiDiring against her ? 

“If you can warn me about something and will not, Mr. 
Lancaster, I think j^ou are unkind,” said Viola, reproachfully. 

“ Oh ! don’t say that; if you know how it hurts me to hear 
it, you would not,” he exclaimed. “What can I do ?” He 
paused in deep and painful thought. “This much I think I 
may say, and I trust to you to take it in good part: It is my 
earnest advice to you to leave this place as soon as possible, 
no matter on what pretext, and if possible to leave the 
neighbourhood also for a time : at any rate, refuse to see, or 
avoid seeing, all callers. I know it sounds ridiculously like 
an advertisement in the Agony Column, but I can’t help that. 
If you would onljr take what I say on trust, and not demand 
further explanation, you would do me a very great favour. 
My desire to serve you is most heartfelt, believe me.” 

His manner and the thrill in his voice amply confirmed 
his words. 

Viola’s reply was cut short by the arrival of Philip and 
Arabella, and Harry had no means of finding out for the rest 
of that day how she had taken his strange advice, or 
whether she Intended to act on it. 

With increased seriousness Mrs. Dixie on his return to the 
cottage began to talk of sending for the doctor, and Adrienne 
lo ponder over Dick Evans’s ‘ working hypothesis.’ ” 


94 


TEE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A CRISIS. 

“ Well, Marion, what now ? Has Richard been forgetting 
he is a gentleman again ? Drinking, swearing, or both ?” 

In his sister Mr. Sedley always found one of his severest 
critics. 

“I did not come here to complain of my husband, Au- 
gusta.” 

‘ ‘ I wish to Heaven you had ! You really ought not to allow 
him to trample on you as he does. Remember, a man will 
always be as much of a brute as you will let him. ” 

Mrs. Sedley was silent. 

“Well, Marion, what is the trouble?” again asked Lady 
Clevedon with a shrug of the shoulders. 

“ It is about my poor daughter ; her father has been speak- 
ing to me very peremptorily on the subject of her mar- 
riage.” 

“ He spoke to me about it, too,” said Lady Clevedon, “not 
peremptorily,” she added with a laugh. 

“ He has sp much respect for your judgment,” said Mrs. 
Sedley. 

“ He has such a wholesome dread of my agile tongue,” said 
Lady Clevedon. “ Well, Marion ?” 

“Mr. Dendraith has spoken to Richard on the subject, and 
asked his consent to an engagement between him and Viola, 
but he has not yet spoken definitely to Viola herself.” 

“I thought it was coming to that,” said Lady Clevedon. 
“and I think it is a matter for much rejoicing. The girl 
could not make a better marriage, and I need not remind you 
of the important bearing that it will have upon the affairs of 
the family in general — the boys, and so on.” 

Mrs. Sedley sighed. “Yes, I do not overlook all that, but 
— will this marriage be for Viola’s happiness ? I fear greatly 
that Mr. Dendraith is a man of no religious principle.” 

“Perhaps he may have what is better,” said Lady Cleve- 
don, with Pagan calmness: “ moral principle.” 

“ I fear he is not even all one might wish as to that, if one 
is to believe rumours.” 

“ He has his enemies. I dare say he is not immaculate, but 
I think he is just the man for Viola; he is born to rule, and 
has the devil’s own temper; women are all the better for a 
little frightening.” 

It had, however, never occurred to Lady Clevedon to look 
out for the terrific creature who could frighten her ! 

“Before Viola came to stay with you,” continued Mrs. 


A CMI8I8. 


95 


Sedley, “she made her father very angry by avoiding Mr. 
Dendraith when he called ; Eichard spoke to me about it, and 
insisted on my using my influence to bring her to a different 
frame of mind. It was very painful to me, for the poor child 
took it so much to heart, and cried out that even I had for- 
saken her.” 

“So you told me at the time,” said Lady Clevedon, “and 
very miserable you were about it !” 

“Now, however, by all accounts,” Mrs. Sedley went on, 
“ she seems to be changing in her feelings towards Mr. Den- 
draith ; is that really the case ?” 

“ He has certainly made an impression.” 

“Ah, that troubles me!” cried Mrs. Sedley, “that troubles' 
me greatly.” 

“Oh, was there ever such a determined miserable!” ex- 
claimed Lady Clevedon impatiently. “ To-day she comes to 
me like Niobe, all tears, because her daughter is not favour- 
able to the marriage proposed for her by her parents; she 
comes to me once more— the identical drops still wet upon her 
cheeks, ready to do duty over again ; but this time because 
the daughter is favourable to the marriage. My dear Marion, 
what would you have ?” 

“I would have my child both good and happy, and I am 
sadly afraid that no woman can hope for such a combination 
in this sad world.” 

“ Depends on what you mean by good, and what you mean 
by happy.” 

“ My position,” continued Mrs. Sedley, “is the more trying, 
because dear Viola would do anything that I asked her to do. 
She makes me her guide and almost her conscience. How can 
I persuade her into this marriage, which I fear may not be for 
her happiness, and how, on the other hand, can I urge her to 
oppose her father’s will ? Can the blessing of Heaven descend 
upon the rebellious child, or upon the mother who encourages 
her rebellion ?” 

“ If the woman hasn’t ingeniously got herself impaled imon 
another two-legged dilemma !” exclaimed Lady Clevedon. 
“ How do you manage to fall in with all these monstrosities ? 
You can’t be content with a sound, able-bodied trouble like 
any other Christian; you must needs pick up creatures with 
more heads and limbs than they ought to have — a sort of 
Briarean woe dreadful to contemplate ! If you had been a 
general, Marion, the Caudine Forks is the battle that you 
would have fought, and straightway you would have gone 
and got yourself inextricably wedged between the mongs ! 

“I think life is made up of these many-sided difficulties, 
said Mrs. Sedley sadly. “Augusta,” she went on, laying her 
hand on her sister in-law’s arm, “ you have influence with 
Eichard; should the poor child really show an invincible 
repugnance to the marriage, you will not refuse to use it on 
her side ?” 


96 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


Lady Clevedon shook her head. 

“ I can’t promise anything. The marriage seems to me so 
rational, that I hope Viola will he wiser than to show any re- 
pugnance to it. I don’t think, mind you, that a girl should 
marry a rich man whom she dislikes, but there is i o reason 
to dislike a rhan simply because he is rich and well born. 
Many romantic girls make a point of doing that as in duty 
bound.” 

No help was to be had from Lady Clevedon in this matter, 
and Mrs. Sedley had then to come to the second object of her 
visit, namely, to take Viola back to the Manor-House. Her 
sister-in-law scoffed and scorned and insisted that her niece 
must stay, but Mrs. Sedley was quietly determined. 

She did not mention that the girl had herself written ear- 
nestly entreating her mother to recall her. 

Strangely still and lifeless seemed the old home when Viola 
saw it again after her ten days’ absence. With all its famili- 
arity, it was to her as if she had never seen the place before. 
And the routine of the days without change, without move- 
ment ; they Avei e like a stagnant, overshadowed pool, where 
there was never a glimpse of the blue heaven, never a ripple 
or a sparkle from dawn to dark, Viola thought the life at 
Clevedon empty and flippant, but at least it had some flash 
and brilliancy. 

She felt restless and unhappy. She could not settle to her 
old life ; memories of thp past ten days haunted her, and filled 
her with vague longing for excitement. 

Some new chord in her being had been touched ; she was 
angry with herself, angry with her surroundings, ashamed 
at her own inability to resume her former simple life. She 
felt she had lost ground; new feelings made bavoc with her 
self-control: she was like a rudderless ship at the mercy of 
contrary winds. 

Gardening was the best sedative for this restlessness, 
though that occupation had the disadvantage of allowing her 
thoughts to work as well as her hands. 

Contrary to Mr. Sedley’s hopes, Philip Dendraith did not at 
once follow up his preliminary overtures. He was reported 
to have gone up to town, a proceeding which caused much 
suffering to the family of the Lord of the Manor. Mr. Sedley 
suspected that Viola had rebuffed her lover, and she had to 
listen to some parental plain-speaking on the subject. 

“If it were not for my mother, I would not remain here 
another moment !” Viola had dflee cried out, passionately, 
bringing down upon her head such a torrent of rage and 
scorn that she left her father fully meaning to do even as she 
had said. Such taunts were more than she could endure. 
But at the sight of her mother her resolution broke down ; she 
could not make yet sadder that sad pale face, and bring tears 
to the eyes that had shed so many bitter ones already. 

On one balmy afternoon, Viola, hoe and basket in hand, be- 


A CEISI8. 


97 


took herself to the garden, a narrow grass-plot beside the 
Lover’s Walk, as it was called ; a dark pathway of yew-trees, 
which formed a tragic background to the beds of ' roses and 
summer flowers among which Viola was moving, busy with 
her scissors and her hoe. 

She was dressed in white, and her sunlit flgure stood out in 
strong contrast to the shadows behind her. A fanciful per- 
son might have seen symbols in the picture. 

A tame jackdaw hopped nimbly around, amusing himself 
with pecking at pieces of stick, and hauling weeds out of 
Viola’s basket on the sly. 

“Charming !” cried a voice breaking the sunny silence. 
“ Would that I were an artist !” 

Viola turned, and the admired picture was by no means 
marred by the addition of Philip Dendraith’s handsome flg- 
ure as he raised his hat and advanced towards her. 

She coloured, and smiled in a manner that pleased him well. 
“So it is to you that the Manor House owes it wonderful 
roses ! Vart d'etre belle! What better teacher could they 
have ?” 

Viola sighed. She wished she could understand this man, 
but not being able to do so, she resigned herself to her igno- 
rance. 

“ I find they best learn how to be beautiful by being 
happy,” she said; “so I try to make them so,” 

She was going on with her hoeing in a desultory way. 

“And you make them happy by bestowing upon them the 
light of your presence !” said Philip in a low voice. 

“ And by introducing to them my most agreeable friends,” 
added Viola with a quick glance. 

Philip almost started; the speech was so unlike one of 
Viola’s. He had expected blushes and downcast looks, and 
he encountered instead something distantly approaching 
mockery. 

It was one of those excursions from her normal character 
which had sometimes surprised herself of late. The rhythm 
and ring of the talk at Clevedon seemed to be ringing in her 
ears, as the characteristic cadence of an author will haunt 
one after reading, creating mental echoes which may escape 
in speech. 

“Now, dear Miss Sedley, I think you have worked long 
enough,” said Philip, taking the hoe from her with gentle in- 
sistance. “ Your roses have had you all to themselves too 
long; it is my turn how to be made happy, and if possible, 
beautiful.” 

“ I make my roses happy by watering them.” 

“ Miss Sedley !” exclaimed Philip, looking round at her. “I 
am afraid you have become rather flippant since I had the 
pleasure of seeing you !” 

“ Oh no ! oh no!” 


08 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


“ Don’t deny it; it is quite charming, I assure you. Only 
please don’t be too hard upon me.” 

Without reply, she allowed herself to be led to the rustic 
seat opposite the sundial whereon the jackdaw sat, alter- 
nately preening his feathers and pecking at the shadow with 
his beak. 

The bird seemed agitated when Philip took his place beside 
Viola. 

“Your jackdaw is apparently jealous,” he said. “No 
doubt you are very fond of him. I should imagine you had 
a large power of loving.” 

“ And of hating,” said the girl. 

“Yes; I can answer for that !” exclaimed Philip with a 
laugh. “Don’t you think now that you owe me some rep- 
aration for having hated me so fiercely in the days of yore?” 

She looked troiibled. 

“Don’t you think,” Philip went on, drawing nearer to her, 
“ that if the possession of your love had become the supreme 
desire and object of my existence, that you ought at least to 
try to give it me ?” 

Viola breathed very quickly, but answered nothing. 

“ You must know, dear Viola, that such is my desire; you 
hove entered and possessed my heart as I thought no woman 
ever could have possessed it; you have enslaved my thoughts, 
my dreams, my very will ! This last week has been a blank 
to me, because you were absent. I am telling you the abso- 
lute truth when I say that 1 have never felt before what I 
feel now, and that I shall never be happy till you promise to 
love me and be my wife.” 

He was so much in earnest that he had thrown off his usual 
calm mannei’j and his measured periods had given place to 
the rough, quick utterance of strong feeling. 

There is something peculiarly moving in the emotion of a 
person generally self-possessed. 

“ Viola, don’t turn away from me; tell me, do you not 
love me ?” 

“ Kiaw !” said the inconvenient jackdaw in a loud voice. 

This was merely a displeased comment upon the arrival of 
Thomas with a watering-pot, Thomas not being in the habit 
of showing that deference towards Jack which Jack thought 
was his due. 

“Unwelcome old man !” exclaimed Phihp; “and you most 
obstructive fowl, I anathematize you both ! Who was it 
that said that a woman can forgive everything in her 
lover, except that he should appear ridiculous ? Havel com- 
mitted the unpardonable offence ?” 

“Oh ! — don’t talk to me like this !” cried Viola with a des- 
perate gesture. “ I am not a clever lady of society who can 
understand and answer you.” 

She looked round in search of Thomas, but that discreet 
person having (after a certain lapse of time) seen what was 


A CRISIS. 


99 


going on, took his watering-pot, and trudged off to pastures 
new, with an expression about his left eye absolutely beyond 
human power to describe. 

Geoffrey finding him in this sublimated state of knowing- 
ness, and receiving from him sundry oracular hints, was pre- 
pared for the woi'st, as he said, especially as he found his 
father in a seraphic temper pacing the terrace with Mrs. 
Sedley, and calling her attention to the exceeding fineness of 
the immemorial elms. Those elms were in process of being- 
secured to the family perhaps for centuries. 

“ I fear you think that because I am sometimes flippant, I 
can never be serious,” said Philip earnestly, “ but you never 
were more mistaken in your life. I own that I think very 
few things of much consequence, but for that very reason I 
have the more ardour to throw into those that I do care 
about. Ah ! Viola, don’t tell me that I have set my heart on 
the unattainable.” 

The conflict that was going on in her mind at this moment 
was entirely unsuspected by Philip; he supposed that her 
efforts to silence him proceeded from mere girlish bashful- 
ness, and that he had only to persevere in order to complete 
his triumph. 

He leant forward and took her hand. 

“ Dearest,” he began, and then stopped, for at his touch 
Viola had drawn her hand away with a sharp movement any- 
thing but suggestive of a triumph for her lover. 

“I wish you would not speak in this way— you distress 
me.” 

“ Viola, I think you are really very unkind,” cried Philip, 
“ when you know how devoted I am to you!” 

“ I am very sorry,” was all that she would say in reply to 
this and to other pleading of the same kind. 

Philip was astonished, piqued, but all the more determined 
to achieve his object. He knew that practically it was 
achieved already, for he had her father on his side, and 
through him Mrs. Sedley also; that was enough: only he 
longed to make the girl come to him willingly and gladly. 
As a last resource alone would he employ the parental influ- 
ence, but he had no intention of giving up the girl, let come 
what would. 

Did he not love her as he had never loved before, and was 
he not ready to lavish upon her every indulgence that money 
and influence could command? If an unwilling bride, she 
should become a loving and a happy wife ; and what more 
could the heart of woman desire? Besides, a woman of 
Viola’s type was the slave of her conscience. Duty, religion, 
convenience, all came trooping to the front after the wedding- 
ring was once fairly on ; a man ran no risk in choosing a bride 
of this kind, however unwilling she might be at the time. He 
could safely calculate on that. Truly mothers like Mrs. 
Sedley ought to be encouraged. 


100 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


“Viola, am I then entirely indifferent to you?” asked 
Philip. “Would you not care if I were to go away and 
never come and see you any more?” 

Her truthfulness obliged her to confess that she would care, 
and Philip pressing his advantage made her own that he 
sometimes had a sort of fascination for her. 

“Then why do you repel me as you do? Why will you not 
accept my love?” 

“Oh! don’t ask me, for pity’s sake, — don’t speak of this 
any more.” 

Philip was fairly puzzled, and not a little annoyed. 

He was silent for a moment, and then said with an abrupt 
energy startlingly different from his ordinary manner: “ You 
are surely not engaged secretly to some one else?” 

“ Oh no, no!” she said quickly. 

The expression of relief that came into his face was as 
astonishing as the anxiety that preceded it. 

“Your affections are not engaged elsewhere?” 

“No.” 

“Then I shall prevail! Think of your parents, Viola — if 
you will not think of me~think how happy you would make 
them. .1 have already spoken to your father, and he gives 
his consent freely. ” 

“I have no doubt of it,” she said with some bitterness. 

A smile flittered across Philip’s face. 

“And your good mother; she too has set her heart upon 
our marriage, though she may not tell you so, because she 
wishes your own heart to decide the question.” 

“ My mother!” exclaimed Viola; “ does she wish it?” 

“She wishes it, undoubtedly; why not talk the matter 
over with her? I don’t want to hurry you for an answer, 
impatient as I am to hear my fate. Will you do that? I will 
come to-morrow, not for your answer, unless you like, but 
merely to see you again. Do try and think of me as kindly 
as you can. Ah! dearest, it is hard to leave you in this state 
of suspense, but I suppose there is no help for it. Au revvir; 
and be merciful; my happiness is in your hands. Good-bye 
till to-morrow.” 

“ Kiaw !” said the Jackdaw derisively. 


DECIDED. 


101 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

DECIDED. 

Mrs. Sedley was generally to be found in the morning- 
room, which she had chosen for her special domain. It faced 
north, was severely furnished, colour apparently not having 
been invented at the time of its upholstering. She was 
dressed in black, with dead- white folds of muslin at the throat 
and wrists. 

When Viola entered, her mother was sitting working in a 
low chair; a quiet, grave figure, with smooth shining hair 
severely brushed down over the temples, the busy fingers 
alone giving signs of animation. 

She looked up and greeted her daughter with a sad, loving 
smile. 

“What is it, dearest ?” she asked, laying her thin hand on 
the table. 

Viola struggled with her habitual reserve for a moment; 
then she said : “ Mother, Mr. Dendraith has just left me; and 
— I want to speak to you!” 

Mrs. Sedley dropped her work ; her hands trembled. 

Viola had placed herself beside her mother with her back 
to the light. She leant her head on her hand and spoke in a 
quick low tone. 

“Mr. Dendraith wants me to marry him; he says he will 
never be happy till I consent; he says that my father wishes 
it (which I knew) and that you wish it; is that the case ?” 

Mrs. Sedley took her daughter’s hand in hers and silently 
caressed it for a few seconds. Then she bent her head and 
laid the little hand upon her brow with a movement more 
emotional than Viola had ever seen her give way to before. 

“I will tell you all that your father and I have been think- 
ing about the matter, dearest. You know that of late your 
father has had many business difficulties, so great that we 
shall not be able to live here much longer unless some relief 
comes. In proposing for you, Mr. Dendraith made most 
generous offers to your father, and as Mr. Dendraith is a man 
of good family and fortune, handsome, clever, and of agree- 
able manners, your father thinks that you can have no pos- 
sible objection to the marriage. He is naturally anxious for 
it, as you may suppose, and he cannot understand that you 
may not care for Mr. Dendraith enough to marry him. Seeing 
your father so bent upon it, I entreated him to let you have 
ample opportunity to judge for yourself, and I think your 
visit to your aunt has given you "some insight into Mr. ben- 
draith’s character and your own feelings towards him. Your 


102 


THE WINQ OF AZEAEL. 


aunt seemed to think that you were beginning to care for 
him.” Viola looked startled. “ Question your own heart 
searchingly, dear child, and consider too what is your duty 
in this matter. Prav for guidance where alone you can ob- 
tain it. I have thought and thought till my head and heart 
ache, and I have prayed ; and I fear that I can see only one 
path of duty for you, my child. Earnestly do I trust that 
you may be given strength to tread it.” 

“Then you do desire this marriage ?” said Viola. 

“I desire only that my child should do what is right and 
dutiful, leaving the rest to God— her father, her brothers, 
all are depending on her decision ” 

“ An d her mother!” added Viola, growing very white. 

“Oh, do not think of /ler, my child! She suffers only 
through the sufferings of her dear ones. But your father’s 
state of health gives me great anxiety, and if we should have 
to leave the Manor-House ” 

“It would kill him,” said Viola, “and you too !” Her face 
was hard and desperate. 

“ On the other hand,” said Mrs. Sedley, “I do not wish you 
to enter upon this union if it is really repugnant to your feel- 
ings. That I cannot countenance. Consider the (Question 
from every side, and do not forget that this opportunity may 
have been given to you for the saving of this young man’s 
soul.” 

“ O mother! it is no more possible to talk to Mr. Dendraith 
about these matters than to Aunt Augusta ! And who am I 
of little faith to move such a man ?” 

“We know not what instruments it may please the Lord 
to use,” said Mrs. Sedley. 

******** 

“Well, Viola, your mother tells me that you have been 
speaking to her about Philip Dendraith’s proposal. I hope 
y6u appreciate your wonderful good-fortune!” She was 
silent. “ The affair had better be brought to a head at once; 
I can’t understand why you didn’t accept him on the spot, 
without girlish shilly-shallying. I am going over now to 
Upton Court, and will take your answer and settle the matter 
out of hand.” 

A moment of terrible inward conflict; Viola stood with 
bowed head and clasped hands, her mother’s words burning 
into her brain: “duty— right — leave the rest to God— your 
father and your brothers — to leave the Manor-House might 
kill him!” And then above all rose the thought of that 
mother herself, racked and tortured in the impending mis- 
fortune of her family, the real weight of which would fall on 
her shoulders. Viola raised her head. The garden seemed to 
spin round her, the air became thick and black. 

“I’ll tell him you say ‘ yes,’ of course,” said her father. 

“ Tell him I say ‘ yes ’ !’’ repeated Viola. 


BETROTHED, 


103 


CHAFLER X7. 

BETROTHED. 

Sir Philip, noted throughout the county for his dashing 
equipages, drove over to the Manoi--House in the very 
sprightuest and jauntiest vehicle which it could enter the 
heart of man to conceive. 

A brilliant pair of chestnut horses, high-stepping, spirited, 
always styhshly on the point of running away, came spank- 
ing down the avenue, “youth at the helm,” and Lady Den- 
draith at the prow. Nothing would persuade the old lady to 
trust herself on the box-seat on her husband’s chariots ; she al- 
ways took the post allotted to “ Pleasure ” in Etty’s famous 
picture. ' 

Philip, on the wings of love, had already arrived at the 
Manor-House where he and Viola with the radiant proprietor 
and his wife were assembled on the door-step to welcome the 
expected visitors. Sir Philip waved his whip in gala fashion, 
drew up the prancing chestnuts, sprang down, helped ‘ ‘ the old 
lady ” to alight, and broke forth into loud expressions of joy 
and satisfaction. The two fathers shook hands with the ut- 
most effusion, exchanging boisterous jocularities, and between 
them making so much noise that the dashing steeds very 
nearly took fright and ran away down the avenue. Only 
Philip’s dexterity prevented the calamity. 

“Well, my dear, I suppose you won’t refuse to kiss me 
now,"' said Sir Philip, patting Viola on the shoulder. 

She made no resistance to the sounding salute of her father-* 
in-law elect, but she did not receive it over-graciously. She 
was quiet and cold, and treated Philip with extreme polite- 
ness in return for his graceful and flattering homage. 

However, the others were too preoccupied to notice this, 
especially as Viola received Lady Dendraith’s hearty expres 
sions of pleasure with answering warmth. 

“ My dear, there is no one I would rather have for a daugh- 
ter-in-law than yourself, and I assure you this is to me the 
best news I have heard for many a long day !” 

The Dendraiths stayed to luncheon, and heartily enjoyed 
themselves. Sir Philip undertaking to “ chaff ” the betrothed 
couple in his usual graceful fashion, to Viola’s utter bewilder- 
ment and dismay. 

Philip took it coolly ; he owned to having got up an hour 
earlier than usual that morning in order to arrive in time for 
breakfast at the Manor-House, admitted with a “What would 
you?” air and a shrug of the shoulders that he had stolen Viola’s 
portrait from her aunt with all the audacity of a thorough- 


104 


THE WINa OF AZRlEL. 


going house-breaker, and generally disarmed his adversaries 
by making more severe jests against himself than any one else 
was able to perpetrate against him. 

He eat a most hearty meal, and betook largely of the cham- 
pagne that Mr. Sedley brought out in honour of the occasion ; 
altogether he was in his happiest mood, and appeared to brill- 
iant advantage. His happiness was obvious, but this was 
clearly because he chose to take the company into his confi- 
dence. He even paraded it in a half-serious, half -jocular man- 
ner. 

Fortunately »for Viola, even after the departure of Sir 
Philip and Lady Dendraith, she managed to avoid a Ute-a- 
tete with her betrothed. 

Her bewildered, unwilling, almost somnambuhstic repetition 
of her father’s words on the night before, had [suddenly — as a 
whisper may start an avalanche— brought down upon her a 
series of consequences for which she was totally unprepared, 
and which she had not even realised. 

The congratulatory visit of Philip’s father and mother had 
startled her into the" consciousness that a great step had been 
taken, and she now dreaded inexpressibly to be alone with 
Philip. How she was to meet him on the new footing she 
could not even imagine. 

The position threatened to become very difficult, especially 
as Philip was far from pliable, and as Viola felt a certain un- 
defined awe of him, partly on account of her sense that she 
did not understand him, partly because she felt the merciless 
grip of his powerful nature underneath the smoothness of his 
manner. In dancing, the most perfect lightness and grace is 
the outcome of strength, and this was what Philip’s suavity 
also suggested. 

He. on his part, had not found the day unsatisfactory in 
spite of Viola’s rather repellant manner. After all, shrewd 
as he was, he failed — where so many shrewd men fail— in his 
interpretation of female character. He thought that Viola 
was simply a little shy. Perhaps a man’s views about women 
are the crucial test of his own character : certainly if there is 
in him the slightest taint of vulgarity, there will it inevitably 
betray itself. 

Whether through the educating influence of his sister’s 
society, or by the help of some innate sense denied to average 
men, Harry Lancaster had always escaped the shallow but 
l)oj.ular dogmas which are repeated so often and with so 
much aplomb that they come to be recognised in literature 
and life almost as axioms. Harry refused to accept these 
unexamined. “The superstitions of dogmatic religion,” he 
once told liis indignant sister, “are rejected scornfully by 
many who still bring their offeiings to their social fetich 
with the simple faith of little children.” 

He had often laughed at Philip’s cynicism, not because it was 


BETROTHED. 


105 


cynicism, but because it was merely the echoes of other 
men’s sneers. 

Philip denied this. If ever a man was justified in being a 
cynic — especially about women — he was that man. 

He admired Viola Sedley (as he frankly admitted) because 
she was so entirely unlike the women of society who had im- 
bued him with a rooted contempt for the sex. 

“ In proportion as they are clever they are bad,” he said; 
“ safety lies in dulness: talent is agreeable to amuse oneself 
with, but stupidity is the thing to marry ! That is the conclu- 
sion which my experience has led me to — though one does 
not always put one’s theories into practice, mind you. Come 
now, you agree with me at heart, though that sister of yours 
won’t allow you to say so. If you had a few thousands a 
year, my dear fellow, your ideas of human nature would 
marvellously alter— sister or no sister. By the bye, I have a 
piece of news for you — no, not about myself just at present — 
there is a chance of a friend of yours coming to settle in this 
neighbourhood; can you guess who it is?” 

“Mrs. Lincoln?” 

“Right. The divine Sibella! I wonder how you guessed? 
You know my father has a small house not far from Upton, 
and he has offered it to Mrs. Lincoln at a low rent— being 
glad to get it kept in repair. The mother is opposed to the 
arrangement; she doesn’t think the ‘Divina Commedia,’ as I 
call her, a proper person. I tell her that the separation was 
his fault, but of course without effect. My father is dazzled 
with the Commedia’s beaux yeux (though he denies it), and de- 
clares she is an injured and immaculate creature, deserving 
all sympathy. You know there was some scandal about a 
fellow — I don’t remember his name?” 

“Mrs. Lincoln shrugs her shoulders at the scandal!” said 
Harry. 

“ But my mother shakes her iiead. You seem ready to be 
her champi6n as of old! Weil, she wants backing. Upton 
will not have her at any price.” 

“ Tant pis pour Upton.''' 

“Well, she’s certainly more attractive than her critics. 
How do you suppose Lady Ulevedon will act in the matter?” 

“ I doubt if she will call,” said Harry. “ Mrs. Sedley her- 
self is not more strict in her notions of propriety. My cousin 
always speaks of Mrs. Lincoln as ‘ that woman,’ which does 
not look encouraging. ” 

“The feminine anathema,” exclaimed Philip, laughing. 
“ How hard women are on one another!” 

“ Who is it says that a woman in the pillory restores the 
original bark to mankind?” 

“ Good,” cried Philip ; “ the feminine ' yap, yap,’ how sweet 
it must sound in the ears of the condemned !” 

“ Mrs. Lincoln once said to me that where a woman blames, 


106 


THE wma OF AZRAEL. 


a man simpler laughs disrespectfully, and gets credit for more 
tolerance while committing the ^eater cruelty.” 

“She IS very keen,” observed Philip. 

“ She also says that, take it altogether, there is perhaps noth- 
ing that a proud woman has more to dread than the approval 
of society.” 

“ One of her many paradoxes. The ‘ divine ’ one is clever, 
hut unbalanced. If she had played her cards well she might 
at this moment be held up as a model of all the virtues.” 

“Yes, but she objects to such bubble reputation,” said 
Harry. “ Upton need not imagine she is waiting in her best 
frock, with beating heart, for it to call upon her. Ten to one 
she won’t notice whether she’s called upon or not. She comes 
here to be quiet, not to be called upon.” 

“To ‘wait till the clouds roll said Philip. “Well, 

that’s piece of news number one ; now for piece of news num- 
ber two. Can you guess it also?” 

Harry gave a visible start. 

“Anything important?” he asked. 

“Not, perhaps, as regards universal history, but as regards 
local celebrities, very much so.” 

“Local celebrities?— Mrs. Pellett has dismissed the pupil- 
teacher for wearing pink ribbons on Sunday.” 

“No; try again.” 

“Something very surprising?” 

“ Nothing ever surprised me more, I can assure you,” said 
Philip with a laugh. 

“ Mrs. Pellett has been wearing pink ribbons herself?” 

“No; something more astonishing than that.” 

“ Mr. Pellett recognised her when he met her unexpectedly 
out walking?” 

“No; worse than that.” 

“ Arabella has joined the Salvation Army !” 

“ Good heavens, no ! What next?” 

“I am exhausted. Caleb Foster has ceased to allude to 
Kant, and has nothing to say about Socrates; Mrs. Pellett 
has attempted the life of the queen, and has been discovered 
with an infernal machine concealed about her person; Mr. 
Evans has given up trying to get subscriptions for a spread 
eagle lectern (that ‘ abominable idol ’ condemned by our an- 
cestors), and Mrs. Evans ceases to take an interest in the 
school-children’s plain needJe-work. Now I will sit down 
and rest ; human ingenuity can go no further.” 

“This is embarrassing,” said Philip. “I hoped you would 
have relieved me of the duty of making the announcement of 
my own engagement.” 

^'Engagement! You! the despiser of women, the ‘old 
bird ’ not to be caught with chaff,— you who have kept a firm 
front against battalions of seasoned veterans ! Phfiip Den- 
draith, I blush for you 1” 

“ I rather blush for myself, I admit,” said Philip with a 


BETROTHED, 


107 


shrug. “ ‘ He that getteth up out of the pit shall be taken in 
the snare,’ you know. Well, it can’t be helped: a man in 
mjr position has to marry some day, and I don’t think Viola 
will make the bondage unbearable — nice disposition, you 
know. ” 

“Very,” said Harry drily. “Accept my congratulations. 
Is the engagement” — he stopped abruptly and cleared his 
throat— “ is the engagement publicly announced yet ?” 

“Scarcely; we do not consider anything public till Mrs. 
Pellett has been confided in under pledge of secrecy. The 
matter was only settled last night; this morning the four 
parents have been congratulating one another, and I imagine 
by to-morrow ‘ Society’ will be in possession of the facts.” 

“ To-morrow ‘Society’ will enjoy itself,” said Harry. 

When he returned to the Cottage, Mrs. Dixie, who had 
been holding a levee during the afternoon, had the remains of 
her royalty still clinging to her. Upon her person were 
crowded massive mementos of those “palatial times” to 
w’hich her son was always disrespectfully alluding. 

“Well, mother,” he said, kissing her, “ tired out with pomps 
and ceremonies ? ‘ Uneasy is the head that wears a crown.’ 

“ My son,” returned Mrs. Dixie, who might have made her 
mark in provincial melodrama had she not been called to 
higher things, “ my son, your mother wears no crown but 
that of sorrow.” 

“ Poor mother,” he said, stroking the white hair affection- 
ately ; “there are many kings and queens so crowned.” 

Mrs. Dixie did not appear quite to relish the idea of a 
multiplicity of rival sovereigns. “ Not many have been tried 
as I have been tried, Harry,” she murmured. “ I am sure it 
is all ordered for the best, but when I think of it !”— she sighed 
heavily,— “ every luxury, a position in the county, always a 
private chaplain; and oh, what a man your father was!” 
exclaimed the widow ecstatically. 

“Quite a luxury, I am sure,” said Harry. 

“Upright and honourable, respected wherever he went — 
and such religious principle! Connected with Lord Eivers- 
dale.” 

“That DOES tend to make a man religious,” said Harry 
gravely. “ Common gratitude ” 

“ Your father used always to thank Heaven whatever be- 
fell him,” said Mrs. Dixie proudly. 

“ Even the Sunset?” inquired &rry. 

“ It was a great blow to him, of course,” said Mrs. Dixie; 
“ but as every one remarked, ‘ he seemed even more of a gen- 
tleman in his downfall than he had been in the time of his 
prosperity.’ ” 

“They always are,” said Harry, “and of course nothing 
but death could sever the Riversdale connection.” 

“ Nothing but death,” repeated Mrs. Dixie with solemnity. 

Adrienne coming into the room at the moment, smiled and 


108 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


nodded to Harry as she took up her work and established 
herself in an easy-chair, quietly listening and observing ac- 
cording to her custom. 

“We were talking about death, Adrienne,” said Harry. 
“No, not at all in a depressed manner — were we, mother? 
Quite the contrary.” 

Adrienne looked up keenly. 

‘ ‘ Were you ringing his praises ?” she asked. ‘ ‘ You remem- 
ber the fable of the man who invoked Death, and when he 
came did not receive him cordially.” 

“ No one ought to call upon a man in his bare bones,” said 
Harry ; “it’s not decent. The proprieties of life should be ob- 
served in all circumstances.” 

“Ah ! your poor father used to be so particular about that,” 
Mrs. Dixie put in piously. “He always said that if a man 
couldn’t take the trouble to dress himself carefully when he 
came to see his friends, he had better stay away. ” 

“ That’s exactly what I imagine the man said to Death when 
he arrived with the wind whistling through his ribs, and half 
his teeth out !” observed Harry. 

“I never saw your father with his teeth out in my life,” 
said Mrs. Dixie. “ He was an example tons all, was your 
poor father.” 

“ So you often used to say to our poor stepfather in the old 
times, mother,” said Harry, with a laugh and an affectionate 
touch as be rose and left the room. 

Adrienne watched him narrowly, and after he was gone she 
answered her talkative mother entirely at random, though 
long habit had made her skilful in carrying on a train of 
thought while conversing with the old lady. 

When the little party of three assembled for the evening 
meal Adrienne thought that Harry was looking ill, and he 
seemed more absent-minded than usual, though talking spas- 
modically in his accustomed vein. 

“ Harry, you are not well,” she said, when they were alone 
together in the garden, Mrs. Dixie being left to her evening 
nap in the little parlour. 

“Am I not ? What makes you think so ?” 

“Your appearance, your manner ” 

“Oh, this accursed reputation for buffoonery !” he exclaimed 
impatiently ; “ if one is not perpetually standing on one’s head, 
and stealing strings of sausages, a la pantomime clown, one 
must be ill or depressed. Is there any more awful fate im- 
aginable than that of the man who must always be in good 
spirits ?” 

“ My dear boy, I don’t want to bother you ; only it distresses 
me to see you look as you do.” 

“ Oh, the ease and joy of the mourner with the broad hat- 
band !” exclaimed Harry. 

“If you are unhappy, dear Hari-y. can no one help you?” 
He was silent. “ Can you not confide in me as you used to 


BETROTHED. 


109 


do in the old childish days ? Do not I know how bitter is the 
sorrow that is borne alone ? Harry, there is nothing on earth 
I would not gladly do for you ; don’t you believe it ?” 

He pressed her hand, but turned away with a man’s dislike 
to the expression of feeling, especially in the presence of a near 
relative. 

“ Nothing more has happened to me than has happened to 
hundreds of better fellows them I am,” he said at last after a 
long pause. 

A thrush was wirbling from an old elm -tree behind the 
garden ; a song sweet, clear, and plaintive, bringing the tears 
into Adrienne’s eyes as she watched the set face of her brother. 
His profile was towards her, and he leant upon the little gate 
leading from the garden into the meadow where a cow was 
still contentedly grazing in the twihght. 

“I am afraid the grief of other ‘better fellows’ does not 
make yours easier to bear,” said Adrienne in a low voice. 

“ You don’t think the eels get accustomed to skinning.” 

She shook her head. 

“You show real intellectual acumen,” he said, fantastically; 
“ very few people understand that grief can be neither more 
nor less than one person can endure ; that twenty sorrowing 
people represent really no more sorrow than is running riot in 
the soul of the chief mourner. ” 

“ O Harry, you are talking at random.” 

“ No, I am quite serious. I have been thinking this out to- 
day. You cannot add pain to pain, your pain to my pain, 
and ours to the pain of Mrs. Pellett. One must begin afresh 
each time ; the events of one organism cannot be mingled with 
the events of other organisrns, as if they were all continuous. 
This truth carries with it many issues quite contrary to our 
ordinary ways of thinking, as a little reflection will show. 
Continuous sorrow is an impossibility.” 

Adrienne looked at him as he leant calmly on the gate, and 
sighed. She wished that he would confess and bewail his grief 
instead of philosophizing about “continuous sorrow.” Did 
ever any human soul get real consolation out of philosophy 
when the real pinch came ? Adrienne thought not. On the 
contrary, this keen, clear habit of mind must heighten the pain 
and enlarge its horizon. It was a misfortune to see too clear- 
ly and too far. 

If only Harry would be less reserved ! But the habit of 
treating everything in a light, half-humorous spirit had be- 
come so ingrained that he was unable to throw it off. “ Few 
things in life are more tyrannous,” he used often to say 
‘ ‘ than the role that gradually comes to be allotted to us. Only 
among strangers can we at last fling off the incubus and ' 
move our limbs in freedom.” 

“Adrienne,” said Harry at last, “perhaps Mrs. Lincoln is 
coming to this neighbourhood shortly. Philip Dendraith told 


110 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


me that his father had offered her ‘ Fir Dell ’ at a nominal 
rent, and I think in all probabihty she will take it.” 

A-driGunG^s fftCG fell# 

“ Then it is as I feared, you still correspond with her.” 

“Certainly.” 

“ Why is she coming here ?” asked Adrienne. 

Harry faced her. 

“ What do you mean ? You think Mrs. Lincoln is coming 
on my account, perhaps I Well, since lam one of her few 
friends, it might not be an unnatural proceeding, but as I hap- 
pen to be here only at long intervals I don’t think I can flatter 
myself to that extent. I am very glad, however, that she is 
coming, and I wish, but of course in vain, that you might 
make her acquaintance.” 

Adrienne gave a little shrinking movement. “ O Harry, 
I could not do that.” 

‘ ‘ Exactly ; I knew you would say so : it is just for that 
reason that Sibella would do you so much good.” 

“ But, Harry, did she not run away with some man or other 
after her marriage ?” 

“ You know her story,” said Harry; “ it is a very common 
one, only it does not often end as hers does: The early en- 
gagement to suit her parental ideas ; the waking of the girl 
to her fate ; the roughness and brutality of the husband driv- 
ing her to desperation ; then the crowning sorrow of loving 
some other man. Sibella did not run away with this fellow, — 
a noble-hearted fellow he was too ; he was my friend, so I 
ought to know,— but she loved him as few human beings are 
capable of loving; and, unhke most women, she did not con- 
sider herself bound by the iniquitous tie into which she had 
been morally forced before she was able to judge for herself 
or able to resist the will of those whom she w^s trained from 
her infancy to respect and obey. They betrayed her accord- 
ing to the time-honoured custom, trusting to her ‘ principles ’ 
to carry her through her ordeal— also according to the time- 
honoured custom. Her ‘ principles,’ however, were not so ac- 
commodating; she left her husband after some wretched 
years of married life during which her views of things had 
gradually changed ; and at once ‘ the world’ began to wag its 
head like a Chinese mandarin, and her parents now regard 
themselves as disgraced.” 

“ She did not cease to see her lover,” said Adrienne. “That 
was surely unwise— to put it as charitably as I can.” 

“Well, that is a matter of opinion,” returned Harry. “Si- 
bella thought it less terrible to be condemned by people she 
cared nothing for, than to be eternally denied the presence of 
one in whom her whole happiness was bound up. She had to 
choose, and that was how she chose. I am not justifying 
Sibella, understand; she does not wish to be justified; she 
could not be justified to the world— her standards and motives 


BETROTHED. 


Ill 


are quite different from theirs. You have to know her to see 
what I mean.” 

“I have heard that Mrs. Lincoln is very eccentric,” said 
Adrienne, coldly. 

“ She is not in the least like Mrs. Pellett or Mrs. Evans; nor, 
on the other hand, is she like Augusta or Arabella. I can 
find no one to compare her to ; so clearly she must be eccen- 
tric.” 

“You know, Harry, that I don’t care for people to be en- 
tirely conventional, but I do think that some respect ought to 
be paid to social ordinances ; otherwise we should soon faU 
into a most chaotic and iniquitous state.” 

“I should describe o\xv present condition in those terms,” 
said Harry. “ Have we not re'^-'^ectable and legalised iniquity 
for which there is no redresc^” 

“ I think Mrs. Lincoln ic wrong,” said Adrienne; “ but I am 
willing to admit that she may have much good in her.” 

“ That is very kind of you, my dear I” 

“O Harry, don’t be angiy with me; I have always felt 
so strongly that a woman should never permit the faintest 
breath of slander to approach her, that I don’t feel as if I 
could ever like this Mrs. Lincoln. I can pity her.” 

Harry burst out laughing. 

“You can’t approach her in that spirit, my dear. She is 
like a wind from the sea; all your little prudences would be 
blown out of you in her presence before you knew what had 
happened.” 

“ She must be a dangerous person.” 

“ Prom your point of view, she is, very ; from another 
point of view, she is one of the safeguards of society ; one of 
the small band of people that keep it from going respectably 
to the devil altogether.” 

“ Do you intend to call upon your ‘ safeguard’ if she comes 
here?” 

“ Do I intend to call upon her ?— Oh ! dear, no ; I am going to 
bow circumspectly from the other side of the road and pass 
on.” 

Adrienne sighed. 

“Harry, forgive me for saying so; but I used to fear that 
you loved this woman at one time.” 

He turned and looked at her; then he said calmly: 

“Well, so I did, and so I do.” 

“ O Harry, my poor boy !” 

“ Don’t pitv me,” he said ; “ my life would have been much 
emptier if it had not been for her.” 

“But the hopelessness of it, and — ” 

“And the impropriety of it, you were going to say.” 
Harrv looked out beyond the little garden to the star- 
sprinkled heavens and smiled. “Don’t distress yourself, 
Adrienne,” he said presently, laying his hand on her shoulder 
affectionately; “and don’t jump too rapidly to conclusions. 


112 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


Human nature is not quite so uniform or so easily undei’stood 
as you appear to think. Rise to the achievement of the really 
great thinkers and realize that your theories and experience 
may not comprehend all, or nearly all, the wonderful facts of 
life and of the human soul.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

WITHOUT MERCY. 

No SLEEP did Viola have on that first night of her engage- 
ment. Her dismay at the thought of it increased with every 
black lingering hour as she lay tossing on her pillow, wonder- 
ing at times if she were under the thrall of a horrible dream. 
It was all impossible; she could not go on with the engage- 
ment; surely Philip himself could not be in earnest about so 
preposterous an idea. He had said that he would ride over 
in the morning, about ten o’clock, and Avhen the time di'ew 
near, Viola was seized with a panic, and flinging on her hat 
and cloak she rushed out across the garden and into the 
park, plunging into the deepest recesses of the underwood in 
order to escape detection in case of pursuit. She began to 
have an actual terror of the man to whom she was betrothed. 

As she drew near to the park boundary, not far from the 
unused grass avenue — the great elm avenue which had never 
lost its fascination for her — she heard angry voices on the 
road outside: one of them was unmistakeably Philip’s. 

Through an opening in the trees she presently saw him 
standing with his left hand on the bridle of his horse, while 
with his right he thrashed the animal with all his enormous 
strength. The creature was flinching and tried to escape 
from the heavy blows ; his glossy sides were bleeding and 
foam-flecked, and with every savage stroke of the whip he 
gave a desperate plunge. 

Harry Lancaster, who had just come up, stood angrily re- 
monstrating. 

“How much longer are you going to keep up this?” he 
asked. “ Can’t you see the creature is half dead with pain?” 

“One would think the horse was yours from the interest 
you take in his welfare, ” said Philip with a sneer, and using 
with renewed violence the cruel whip. 

“Are you a man or a fiend?” exclaimed Harry, “I will 
look on at this devilry no longer. Voii are literally slicing 
the miserable beast with that whip of yours. WiU you leave 
off, or must I interfere?” 

“ Interfere at your peril.” 


WITHOUT MERCY. 


113 


Harry’s answer was to lay hold of the handle of the whip, 
and try to wrench it from the other’s grasp. 

Philip was forced to let go the bridle, and the horse started 
off at a gallop down the road, followed by a curse from his 
master. 

“ Meddlesome fool!” Philijp muttered as the two struggled 
together by the roadside for several minutes, silent from 
very fury. 

Viola looked on in horror, too dismayed to speak. This 
was the man whose honied phrases had been whispered so 
softly in her ear ! This was her future husband 1 Well had 
that instinctive fear been justified! And yet with its justifi- 
cation it seemed to vanish. Viola could not feel frightened 
of a man who might be capable of physical violence towards 
her; that thought roused all her own latent fierceness and 
her instincts of revenge; her timidity was exorcised. It was 
the cool, suppressed, self -mastering power which had awed 
her in Philip Dendraith. Now she actually longed to do bat- 
tle with him herself on behalf of the ill-used animal. Intense 
indignation deprived her of all fear. 

Thrusting aside the boughs of the trees, she forced her way 
through a gap in the oak paling and stood with flaming 
cheeks before the combatants. 

“Mr. Dendraith,” she gasped, “you are a cruel, wicked 
man — I knew you were cruel, I felt it, and now I know, and 
I won’t marry you, I wonH,—dLn^ I hope I shall never see your 
face again as long as I live!” 

She was trembling with passion, and her voice shook and 
gave way at the last word as if she were going to burst into 
tears. But her eyes were quite dry. 

Even Phihp had been a little disturbed by this sudden ap- 
parition and outburst. But he quickly recovered his self- 
possession and adroitly managed to put Harry in the wrong 
as he handed him courteously the disputed riding-whip. 

“ Allow me to confess myself vanquished — by the presence 
of a lady ; the whip is yours !” 

Harry laid it across his knee and snapped it viciousb’ in 
two. The pieces he flung over the hedge into a turnip field. 
Philip laughed. 

“Although the whip was a favourite one,” he said, “I don’t 
grudge it, seeing the intense enjoyment that you appear to 
derive from its destruction !” 

“The next time you wish to chastise your horse, you can 
procure a more effective instrument; the Russian knout, for 
instance, does double the work with half the effort ; however, 
I wrong you in supposing for a moment that you grudge 
trouble in the good cause !” 

“Surely this is sarcasm or something very like it!” cried 
Philip. “ Wrong me in supposing that I grudge any trouble, 
— very good; irony all through; quite a Russian knout sort 
of business: good deal of lead in it, don’t you know?” 


114 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


“ I thought something heavy was quite in keeping,” Harry 
retorted. 

“Good again’ But alas I while I linger here, listening to 
these lightsome sallies, our bone of contention is rapidly 
emigrating.” 

“Perhaps you had better go and gather up his scattered 
fragments,” said Harry. 

“ Perhaps I had, and I can explain matters to you, Viola 
my love, when I return.” 

“I don’t want an explanation,” she answered ; “ everything 
has explained itself.” 

‘ ‘ So much the better ; it is a pity to start with a misunder- 
standing. Au revoir F 

With these words he smilingly/ raised his hat and strode off 
at a gradually quickening pace down the road. Harry looked 
at Viola, and their eyes met. 

‘ ‘ I hope you are not angry with me for my part in this 
affair!” he said at length. 

“Angry! I am most grateful.” Her voice was still trem- 
bling with excitement, and had an ominous break in it. They 
turned instinctively, and walked on towards the elm avenue. 

Just as they were entering it, on the summit of the little 
hill, Viola suddenly stopped. At this point the sea was 
visible. 

“Listen,” she said ; do you hear how the waves are break- 
ing to-day ? When I was a child I used to fear that sound, 
— my nurse used to tell me that it bodes misfortune. Don’t 
you hear how it moans ?” 

There was a startled look in her eyes, and as she spoke she 
stretched out her arm seawards, and then raised it above her 
head, standing so, like a prophetess. 

“The waves bear you no ill-wull, I am sure,” said Harry, 
in a tone that he used only to Viola, “you who are almost a 
daughter of the sea.” 

“Yes,” she said, still with deep excitement in her voice, 
“from my childhood it has sung to me and drawn me to- 
wards it so that the longing for it became a pain. I was for- 
bidden to go to it, and that made the longing worse. Day 
and night, summer and winter, I have heard it, sometimes 
sighing very softly and sometimes full of lamentation; I 
think its great sweetness comes from its great strength. But 
oh ! when it is stirred to its depths, its song is full of misery, 
so awful, that no words can possibly tell of it,— no words 
that ever human being spoke !” 

Harry looked at her in amazement. What did this girl 
know of such misery? She must have terrible capacity for 
suffering or she could not interpret the voices of nature after 
so mournful a fashion. 

And this was the promised wife of Philip Dendraith, a 
man who knew not what the word “pain” meant, who 
was capable of no feeling much keener than discomfort or 


WITHOUT MERCY, 


115 


chagrin, except the feeling which prompted him to such ac- 
tions as had led to the quarrel of the morning ! Harry thrilled 
with indignation. 

It was cruel, shameful !— the iniquitous work of a dissi- 
pated old spendthrift, who wanted to save himself from the 
consequences of his own sins, and of a narrow-minded woman 
who for all her maternal professions was ready to wreck her 
daughter’s whole life for the sake of her own miserable piety ! 
Before to-day Harry had fancied that Viola was a v/illing 
victim, but the scene of the morning dissipated that idea. 
Fate seemed to thrust him into the position of champion to 
this friendless girl, — worse than friendless indeed, he thought, 
for who is so lost and alone as a woman under the protec- 
tion of those who betray her trust ? 

“Poor child with the mournful prophetic eyes, what can I 
do to save you ? I who cannot face the thought of the future 
without you?” 

“I am afraid you have been unhappy,” he said aloud, re- 
ferring to her last strange words about the sea; “perfectly 
happy people do not hear such thirds in the sound of the 
waves !” 

She was silent. 

“I fear,” he said presen thq “that you did not take my 
somewhat oracular advice which I gave you at Clevedon the 
other day.” 

“Would to Heaven I had!” she exclaimed; “I tried hard, 
but what could I do ? — and besides ” • 

That “besides” meant more than Harry could fathom or 
than she would explain. 

“If there is any way — no matter how— that I can help you, 
you will give me the chance,” he said earnestly. “ If I may 
presume to speak on the matter of your engagement, I must 
tell you that I think you have a perfect right to break it off 
after what you saw" this morning. Such an exhibition of 
brutality is unpardonable!” 

Oh, I carCt marry him— I can’t, I can’t!” exclaimed Viola 
with a desperate gesture. 

“Then for Heaven’s sake don’t!’’ he exclaimed; “it is 
horrible to think of !” 

“If you knew how I am placed !” 

“I do know— forgive me— and that is what emboldens me 
to speak. However important may be the considerations 
which urge you to this marriage, they sink into nothing in 
comparison with those which ought to decide you against it. 
You don’t know what you are doing! Your whole life is at 
stake, and my happiness! — forgive me; what can I do?” 

“Have it boiled for supper with parsley sauce,” rang a 
voice through the trees, and at the same instant appeared the 
stalwart form of Geoffrey with his fishing-rod over his 
shoulder, shouting dirsctions to the gamekeeper to take to 


116 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


the cook on the subject of a trout that he had caught, weigh- 
ing twelve pounds. 

“ Boiled happiness with parsley sauce !” echoed Harry with 
a rueful laugh. 

“Holloa, you there!” Geoffrey called out; “ bet you haven’t 
had as good sport as I have this morning. Look here I” and 
he swung his bag round and displayed the spoil. “ That fel- 
low with the knowing eye gave me a lot of trouble ; artful 
old dodger, but I hooked him at last— my twelve-pounder 
I have sent in to be choked for dinner. Holloa, Viola !” ex- 
claimed Geoffrey suddenly, looking from her to Harry. 
“ Why, you have got the wrong man!” 

His look of bewilderment was so comic, that Harry, heavy- 
hearted as he was, burst into a shout of laughter. 

“ But why is this?” persisted Geoffrey. 

“ ’Cos t’other man’s sick,” quoted Harry. 

“ Well, to tell you the honest truth,” said the tactless youth 
“I wish you. were the man!” Harry coloured and turned, 
away. 

“No such luck,” he said jestingly. 

“If t’other man, being sick, were to die,” suggested Geof- 
frey, regardless of the feelings of his companions, “ why then 
you might step into his place, and I’d give my consent and 
my blessing— and I’d ring the wedding-bells,” added the 
graceless youth. “Ha! Hist! The enemy approaches.” 

Philip was coming down the avenue towards them at full 
speed. 

“I’ve captured my Bellerophon,” he said as he came up, 
“and taken him to the stables, where he is now enjoying a 
wash-down and a feed of corn. His frame of mind is envi- 
able, I assure you !” 

With the want of insight of even the keenest men where a 
woman is concerned, Philip treated Viola as if nothing had 
happened ; and as she behaved, as far as he could see, much 
the same as usual, he thought her anger had blown over. 

Harry and Geoffrey had to walk on ahead and leave the 
other two to follow; for Philip managed in such a way as to 
give them no choice. 

“At last we are alone, dearest,” he said, stopping and fac- 
ing his companion, “and before we go a step farther we must 
ratify our betrothal in due form !” He put his arm round 
her waist and bent forward to kiss her. But she sprang 
back. 

“What! still angry about that affair of the horse? What 
can I do to earn forgiveness? How shall I sue for my dear 
lady’s pardon? I am all submission and repentance. Surely 
she will not refuse me one little kiss, if I ask for it, verv 
humbly.” 

“ I want you to release me from my engagement !” 

“ ViolaP^ His cheek flushed and his lips set themselves in 
a thin hard line. “Do you know what you are saying?” 


WITHOUT MERCY. 


117 


“ Only too well.’- 

‘JThis is a blow for which I was totally unprepared,” said 
Philip. “ I hoped that you returned in some measure my 
boundless love for you ; but if so small a thing can turn you 
— oh ! Viola, this is bitter ! Can 1 not win your love by any 
means? It looks as if— if I thought that fellow Lancaster 
had succeeded where I have failed !” 

A certain expressive tightening of the lips indicated his 
meaning. 

“Viola, you are mine,” he said, taking her hands in his 
firmly; “you have no right to withdraw from our engage- 
ment.” 

“You would not marry an unwilling bride!” she ex- 
claimed. 

“ I would have you, Viola 1” 

She tried to loosen the grasp of his hands, but in vain. 

“ You have given me the power; you cannot take it back,” 
he said. 

“I entreat, I implore you,” she cried passionately. 

He flung away her hands. 

“ Plead so for any other thing in the world, and see how I 
will respond; but this— Viola, you try me too much.” 

“Put yourself in my place!” 

“Do you so hate me, then?” he asked bitterly. 

“ Yes, at times.” 

He winced. “ Blow after blow you inflict without mercy !” 

“I had a lesson in that this morning,” she said. 

“That accursed horse again! O Viola! be merciful and 
be just. At present you are neither. You fling me away 
for one fault, accepting no apology.” He stood looking at 
her for some seconds gloomily. 

Then a light came into his eyes, and a fixed look about 
his mouth. “Why do I woo my betrothed?” he exclaimed. 
“She is mine, and she shall not escape me. Some day you 
will live to thank me for it ; you shall be the happiest woman 
in England against your will !” 

“ And if I did become so, you would remain unjustified,” 
she said. 

“But not unrewarded!” he returned, with a smile that 
haunted her long afterwards. 


138 


THE WINQ OF AZRAEL. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

ADRIFT. 

When Viola, trembling and excited, related the events of 
the morning to her mother, Mrs. Sedley appeared much dis- 
mayed ; not indeed at ^the conduct of her son-in-law elect, 
but at her daughter’s way of taking it. 

“Dearest, you must not judge a man’s character by his 
behaviour towards animals; the most tender-hearted of men, 
after all, find their greatest pleasure in slaying those dumb 
creatures over whom God has given us dominion. Men are 
all like that ; and though I agree with you that Mr. Dendraith 
was wrong to lose his temper as he did, I cannot think that it 
would justify you in withdrawing from your engagement. 
The family would regard it as a mere pretext or a ddiberate 
slight, — and think of your poor father !” 

Viola turned very pale, and sank powerlessly upon a 
chair. 

“ The engagement is bv this time made public,” Mrs. Sedley 
continued. “The whole neighbourhood is discussing it; 
really, it is not possible, dearest, to draw back now. If your 
husband never does anything worse than beat his horse rather 
overhard, I shall not fear for 3’ our happiness. Surely j'ou are 
not afraid of him ?” 

“Not noivT said Viola, with a gleam in her eyes. 

“ You can use your influence to induce him to treat his ani- 
mals more humanely ; he is devoted to you, and I have no 
doubt he will do that for your sake. Gentleness, patience, 
and obedience in a wife can work wonders.” 

O marvellous faith, that remains unshaken after a life- 
time spent in proving its futility ! 

Philip did not leave Viola much time for considering mat- 
ters, or for maturing her opposition. Although much piqued 
by her conduct, he put it down to mere girlish caprice. At 
the idea of giving her up, he laughed. When had he given 
up anything on which he had set his heart and his will ? Tie 
had yet to learn that he could be beaten by a timid, ignorant, 
parent-ridden girl. 

He came again to the Manor-House next morning, and 
behaved as if nothing had happened. Viola seemed tongue- 
tied. She treated Philip with a cold ceremony, which not 
even Mr. Sedley could mistake for a satisfactory bashful- 
ness. 

When Sir Philip patted her on the back and attributed her 
demeanour to this cause, she looked at him with stead v, 
widely-opened eyes, and then gave a sad little flickering smile! 


ADRIFT. 


119 


She made no attempt to repudiate the accusation. Old men 
had their own hereditary notions about girls and their ways, 
and it would take an enterprising girl indeed who should 
undertake to uproot them ! 

Lady Clevedon’s ^uick eye saw that something was wrong. 

“Harry,” she said, “what’s the matter here ? Is there a 
lovers’ quarrel going on, or what ?” 

“ Do vou want to know what is going on ?” said Harry. “I 
will tell you. Andromeda has been chained to the rock, for 
the gods are angry and must be appeased by sacrifice ; the 
monster is about to devour her,— so that Andromeda is having 
a rather bad time of it just now — that’s all !” 

“ My dear boy, she’s in love with Philip; you are talking 
nonsense.” 

“ She may have been so at one time, but she does not wish 
to marry him now. Some one ought to interfere. A man 
has no right to marry a woman against her will, it is mon- 
strous !” 

“ Pooh ! What is a woman’s wiU ?” asked Lady Clevedon. 

“ That you ought to know.” 

“ Oh ! I was meant to be a man !” 

“You are all making a great mistake about your niece,” 
said Harry with renewed energy. “ Every fresh event will 
strike the hidden springs of her character, and lam con- 
vinced she will develop into something that her family will 
not like if this moral coercion is persisted in. For my part I 
hope she will. She tries to tread in her mother’s footsteps ; but 
her nature is too passionate, she cannot do it,— for which 
Heaven be praised. Once she is fully aroused, the artificial 
imitative self which she shows at present will burn away like 
so much tinder.” 

“You are either very imaginative or very penetrating,” 
said Lady Clevedon. 

“ Time alone will show which,” he returned. 

Perhaps it was the strange look in Viola’s eyes which had 
suggested the prediction. The weather being stormy, the 
sound of the waves was more than usually distinct, and Viola 
seemed to be listening restlessly to that ominous moan, which 
had haunted her childhood with presage of misfortune. 

Having promised to go with his mother on a round of 
calls, Harry had to return to the Cottage early, and Philip 
followed his example. He found Viola very unresponsive, 
and thought it prudent not to force his society upon her 
till her fit of ill-temper— as he called it— had passed off. 

In the afternoon, when his servitude was over, Harry an- 
nounced that he was going for a walk, and could not say when 
he might be back. He said that he panted for a breath of the 
sea. Very fresh and delicious the sea-breath was when he 
reached the shore, and stood watching the waves rolling in, 
and the foam sweeping to his feet. The wide freedom of the 
place, and the wonderful sea-freshness gave new audacity 


120 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


to his impulses. Hesitations were overwhelmed as children’s 
sand casfies by the sweeping of a wave. 

It was scarcely a surprise, only a great joy, on looking 
round at some instincth'e suggestion, to discern the white 
fluttering garments of a figure which he could not mistake, 
even at this distance. 

Viola was talking to Caleb Foster and pointing to a boat 
that lay on the beach. So intent and eager was she, that 
Harry’s approach remained unnoticed till he stood beside her ; 
then she started and coloured vividly. 

“Ah, you are much wanted here !” said Caleb. “I have 
been explaining to this young lady that she can’t manage a 
craft of that size — with an opinion of her own, too — on such a 
day. The waves are strong, and it may come on to blow 
harder any minute.” 

“I have often been out with Geoffrey and understand all 
about it,” Viola said hastily, and colouring once more. 

“ Were you really going to attempt it alone !” cried Harry 
in dismay. “What can you have been thinking of ! Pre- 
sentiments do come true" sometimes. I felt I should be 
wanted here to-night. Let me come with you if you wish to 
go; soldier as I am, I consider myself no bad seaman.” 

He held out his hand, and Viola, seeming half stunned by 
the frustration of her own design, allowed herself to be led 
into the boat. 

- “ The centre of gravity is improperly adjusted,” said Caleb. 

“ A little more to the right. Miss Sedley, if you please. 
You will find the ‘Viola’ (as I call her in compliment to your- 
self) a brave little craft, but she wants humouring, like the rest 
of her sex.” 

“ Like them, she answers to the touch of intelligence, and 
rebels against coercion. Isn’t that it, Miss Sedley?” asked 
Harry, with a smile. 

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered; “I 
don’t know anything !” 

“ Give a shove, Foster,” said the young man. 

Together they laid their weight against the boat and 
launched her: and as she grated off the beach, Harry sprang 
in, and the Viola darted eagerly forward through the surf 
into deep water. Harry gave an exulting wave of the hand 
towards the shore. 

“Good-bye, old shore!” he cried, “ good-bye to etiquette, 
and formality, and all the gags and muzzles of our crazy life, 
—good-bye to everything but the wind and the deep sea. 
There’s an exordium for you,” he added with a smile, as he 
sat down and took the sculls. “I won’t ask were we shall 
go,” he went on; “I will just go on at haphazard. This 
movement is glorious, isn’t it? Look at those waves! how 
they curl, and how they are green, as the French would say. 
Now I am going to forget that you are Miss Sedley, and think 
of you as some sea-spirit, consolidated— like a nebulous young 


ADRIFT. 


121 


world— out of sea-spray and ocean winds. Then I may say 
what I please to you, may I not?” 

Viola smiled. She did not seem surprised at his buoyant, 
fantastic talk ; the poetry of the scene had attuned her mind 
to his. Her pulses beat faster as the boat swung out to sea; 
she too thrilled at the sight of those heaving miles of green 
water. She leant over the boat-side to watch the sculls dip- 
ping with even recurrence into the deep ; and her face seemed 
to grow every moment more beautiful as the bondage was 
unloosed and the half-released spirit fluttered out— as a pant- 
ing bird from its cage— into the sweet bewilderment of sud- 
den freedom. Her hat, which threatened to be blown off. 
had been discarded, and she had no covering for her head 
but her own thick hair, which was fluttering in the wind. 

“ I need no help now to believe you are a spirit of the sea !” 
exclaimed Harry. “ You only want a crown of sea weed to 
make the resemblance perfect.” 

He caught a spray as it floated by and handed it to lier, 
and she smiled and blushed, and laid it dripping among the 
coils of her hair. A wild, poetic beauty was in her face ; all 
trace of the ‘ young lady’ had disappeared; her womanhood 
was uppermost now. She was like some dark- eyed sea- 
queen, daughter of the twilight; some mystic, imaginary 
figure, with all the loveliness of ocean and of evening in her 
eyes. 

Once past the current that swept round the head-land on 
which stood the lonely ruins of Upton Castle, Hai ry slackened 
speed, and, after a time, he let the boat drift out to sea with 
the wind, which was blowing off shore. 

He felt that this would be one of the memorable days of 
his life, one of the few moments of almost unearthly joy that 
come, he believed, as pledges of a possible Paradise* realisable 
even in this bewildered world, when self- tormenting mortals 
shall at last have groped their way thither through the error, 
and the suffering, and the wrongs of weary ages. 

“I said that I was going to speak openly to you to-daj',” 
Harry began; “and I feel that anything else would be ludi- 
crous, and even unfair to you and to myself. This is no time 
for hesitation ; our whole lives are at stake, and I must speak 
out.” 

Viola did not look startled — nothing would have startled her 
to-night; she was in a waking dream. 

“ When you came down to the beach this evening, I knew 
that you were very miserable. It was a desperate impulse 
that made you long to be afloat on the waters ; and with it 
lurked a secret hope — secret from yourself —that they would 
swallow you and your troubles for ever !” 

She flinched from his earnest gaze, and coloured, while a 
look of pain came into her face. 

“ I do not say this in detection or reproach, but in sym- 
pathy,” Harry went on hastily. “ I know that you are being 


122 THE WING OF AZRAEL. 

driven to despair, and it is no wonder such thoughts come to 
you.” 

“ I know it is very wrong ” Viola began. 

“ The Devil has been quoting Scripture to you -you must 
resist this marriage.” 

It is too late, and besides ” 

“ It is not too late, and there is no ‘ besides,’ ” cried Harrj'. 

“ My father and my mother ” 

Harry gave a fierce gesture and exclamation. “ Do they 
not know that the slave-trade is illegal in England?” 

“ I don’t understand— I ” 

“No; you are brought up not to understand; the thing 
couldn’t be done otherwise. O Viola, let me save you ; 
there is nothing I would shrink from doing, there is noth- 
ing that you should shrink from doing. If you only real- 
ised ” 

“ What am I to do?” 

“Ask him to release you.” 

“ I have done so.” 

“And he refuses?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry was silent for a moment. “You have not the cour- 
age to go to your father and say that you will not be forced 
into this marriage.” 

“ I could face my father, but not the consequences for my 
mother. He punishes her for my misdeeds.” 

Harry set his lips. 

“How securely they bind you through your own pity and 
tenderness ! It is quite masterly. Loyala himself had not a 
more subtle method of playing the potter with human na- 
ture.” 

“My mother thinks it impossible for me to draw back 
now,” said Viola. “ I told her about the beating of the horse.” 

“Strange beings these good women are!” he exclaimed. 
“We shml never get any help from them— that is certain! 
O Viola! it is unendurable! I, who love you so that literally 
my whole soul is bound up in you, — not simply my happiness, 
but my whole being, — I would rather that you should die 
than marry that man !” 

Even this absolutely unexpected announcement, made as it 
was with almost startling passion, did not appear very greatly 
to surprise Viola. Perhaps in her distraught state, exhausted 
physically and mentally by the emotions she had gone 
through she scarcely understoed what was said, or, if she did, 
was unable to grasp its relation to the facts of her previous 
life, whose thread seemed to have slipped from her fingers 
when she left the land behind her. 

“I have told you that I am ready to do anything in my 
power to save you ; but without your assistance I am help- 
less. Will you come with me now, or perhaps to-morrow, to 
my friend Mrs. Lincoln?” Viola started. “Ah! you hav^ 


ADRIFT. 


123 


been prejudiced against her, I see ; but I know she could ad- 
vise and help us both as no one else could. She will sympa- 
thise deeply with you, for her marriage was arranged very 
much as yours has been arranged ; her inexperience, her re- 
spect for auty, and her fear of giving pain were played upon, 
as yours are being played upon. She could speak to you 
more eloquently than I about the miseries of such a marriage ; 
for she has suffered them. Already she knows about you, 
and I may say almost she loves you, and she is most eager to 
see and help you in your present troubles. I cannot tell you 
how generous and lovable she is — I should like you to find 
out for yourself. Dear Viola, will you let me take you to 
her?'’ 

“Oh, no, no,” she said in a strange, dreamy tone, almost as 
if the answer were automatic. “ My mother and my aunt 
tell me that one must not know her.” 

Harry sighed. “But couldn’t you judge for yourself, for . 
once ?’' he urged. “Mrs. Lincoln has done what most people 
think wrong, no doubt; but most people are doing with the 
utmost self-congratulation what Mrs. Lincoln on her side 
thinks base and degrading. There are different ideas of right 
and wrong in the world, you must remember 1” 

“ There can surely be only one right and one wrong,” said 
Viola. Her mother’s teaching was doing its work thoroughly 
at the critical moment. 

“If you won’t go to her then, will you let her come to you ? 
Not at your home, of course, but at some appointed place 
outside.” 

“That would be deceiving my parents,” said Viola. “I 
could not do that.” 

“ And what resource do they leave you but deception F' he 
asked hotly. “You and they are not no equal terms: they 
can coerce you ; their power over you is despotic. And to re- 
sist such power, all methods are justifiable.’^ 

“ Oh ! you cannot mean what you say ! I have always 
been taught that the will of parents is sacred, and that no 
blessing can come to a child who acts in opposition to their 
wishes.” 

“Taught by whom?” Harry enquired. “ By your parents?” 

“ Everyone would say the same thing,” Viola replied. 

“Everyone has been taught by parents,” retorted Harry. 

“Oh! take me home, take me home!” she cried suddenly. 

“ It is wicked to listen to such things.” 

“Ah, do stav with me a little longer!” he pleaded. “ Such 
moments as these come but once in a lifetime, and besides, 
even at the risk of your displeasure, I must speak plainly on 
a matter of such de^ moment to us both. You seem to for- 
get that I love you, viola. Have I no hope of winning your 
love in return?” 

She looked disturbed and bewildered, as if her notions of 


124 TUB WINO OF AZRAEL. 

right and wrong, in spite of her teaching, were becoming con- 
fused. 

“Anyhow, I mean to try with all my might and main to 
win it,” Harry continued; “nothing can daunt me, and I 
shall never despair. The strength and depth of my own feel- 
ing justify my obstinacy in hoping.” 

“ Oh ! take me home, I will not listen !” 

“Is that fair to me?” Harry asked eagerly. “Why will 
you not listen ? Because you fear my i^leading might move 
you? 0, Viola, if that is so, you have no right to forbid it; 
for your heart is half won !” 

“ It is not half won, it is not half won!” she protested. 
“Why are you talking like this and making me feel so 
wicked? What would my mother say to it? It must be hor- 
ribly wrong, for I dare not face the thought of what she 
would say! Mr. Lancaster, please take me home.” 

“ Only tell me that I have some hope - just a faint gleam.” 

“ Take me home,” she repeated. 

Slowly, regretfully, he turned the boat’s head and rowed 
back towards the shore. He saw that to say any more just 
now would be to injure his cause ; Viola was fccoming fright- 
ened of her own feelings. 

The return journey — how different from the exultant half 
hour when they were outward bound! — was made almost in 
silence. As they touched the shore Viola sprang out so 
eagerly that she almost fell. Harry’s arm was only just in 
time to save her. 

“Let this be symbolical,” he said, retaining the hand, which 
she gave him. “Farewell, and remember that you can al- 
ways appeal to me for help, and never be afraid that I shall 
misinterpret your appeal if you make it. My advice to you 
is, to announce firmly and simply that you will not carry out 
your engagement, since, to all intents and purposes, it w^as 
forced upon you. In any case, do let me know how things 
go on, and remember that I am entirely at your command — 
always.” He raised her hand and kissed it. 

“You are too good to me,” she said; “ and I am very, very 
miserable. Thank you, and good-bye!” Her voice broke. 

She drew her hand from his and hurried away. He would 
have followed, but she weaved him back, quickening her pace, 
and presently vanished behind the first small headland. 

Harry stood gazing at the spot wdiere she had disappeared, 
till a voice behind him made him start round. 

“ Love,” said the philosopher,” is a temporary madness. 
Under its influence the human being ” 

“Oh! what do you know about it?” cried Harry, fero- 
ciously. 

“Ah! a bad paroxysm,” remarked Caleb, “ very lowering 
to the general tone, and apt to disturb the intellectual bal- 
ance if long persisted in !” 

“ I abominate intellectual balance,” said Harry, irascibly. 


AN ENCOUNTER. 


125 


“Naturally, naturally,” returned the philosopher. “My 
young friend, if energetic movement reheves your feelings, do 
let me walk rapidly up and down the beach with you; I have 
time at my disposal.” 

“Oh, hang you!” Harry exclaimed, “ can’t you leave a fel- 
low alone ?” 

“ Fen/ disturbing to the intellectual balance,” murmured 
Caleb. 

“Perhaps i/ow never had the heavens falling about your 
ears— the sun darkened and the moon put out?” 

“On my recovery from a severe illness on one occasion ” 

“Oh, this is more than I can bear!” Harry exclaimed, 
“ I had far better pour out my woes to the stony rocks!” 

“I assure you I deeply feel for you,” said Caleb. 

“Yes, because of the disturbance of nw intellectual bal- 
ance,” retorted Harry, with a snort. “Caleb, you are the 
most rediculous man I ever met ; you know everything and 
imderstand nothing ; all is revealed to you, and you are blind 
as a bat. Free as air, you never move beyond the radius of 
a five-foot tether, and in the midst of life you are in death. 
Good-bye, and pray fervently for the disturbance of your in- 
tellectual balance.” 

With this parting advice, Harry strode off and left the 
philosopher chuckling. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

AN ENCOUNTER. 

“And so Miss Sedley’s wedding is fixed for the seventh,” 
said Adrienne, cheerfully unconscious that she was indicting 
torture upon the being for whom she would wilhngly have 
sacrificed happiness. “I do hope the marriage will prove a 
success.” 

‘ ‘ That we shall never know, ” observed Dick Evans. ‘ ‘ Mar- 
riages are always made to look well outside.” 

“Yes, unless one of the couple drinks, ” said Adrienne, ‘ ‘ and 
even then it doesn’t often come out till they give a garden 

^ (T?iis allusion to a recent scandal was received with smiles.) 

“ For my part,” Adrienne continued, “I think Philip Den- 
draith has misconceived his vocation. He ought to have gone 
on taking ladies in to dinner all his life; I would choose him 
out of a multitude for that office: but for marrying !” 

She shook her dainty little head expressively. 

“Young men always settle down after they are married,” 


126 THE WING OF AZBAEL. 

said Mrs. Dixie; “I am sure he is a most agreeable young 
fellow.” 

“ I’m glad it’s not one of the girls,” Dick Evans said, reck- 
lessly disregarding the fact of their large numbers and limited 
opportunities, “and I am glad not to have to congratulate 
2/owr sister, Harry.” 

“ Thank you,” said Harry curtly. 

“They seem to be hurrying it on,” Dick continued; “the 
seventh— scarcely three weeks from now.” 

“ I wonder how her tromseau can be got ready,” said Mrs. 
Dixie. “ I know that mine took six months to prepare; but 
then of course I had four dozen of everything, and the most 
exquisite work, and all real lace— I was one mass of insertion 
(Valenciennes) — my poor mother would have everything of 
the best, and ” 

. It suddenly struck Mrs. Dixie that she was committing an 
impropriety in alluding to underclothing in a mixed company, 
and she relapsed into a decorous but unexplained silence, pre- 
luded by a little cough which would have amply atoned for 
the grossest of improprieties. 

Dorothy Evans, Dick’s scapegi’ace sister, also took a hostile 
view of the marriage. 

Philip’s good looks and fascinating manner had not suc- 
ceeded in blinding the girl’s instinct for what is straightfor- 
ward and genuinely chivalrous in man. 

“ He’s all talk and bows,” said Dorothy, “ and you always 
feel he is laughing at you to himself, though you would 
think, to hear him, that you were the loveliest and the most 
fascinating of your sex. He is a horrid man, and I hate his 
eyes.” 

Dorothy had hit upon the one traitorous feature in his face. 
Perhaps no such man ever had eyes entirely trustworthy. 
Not that Philip’s had the proverbial difficulty of looking one 
in the face ; he could stare most people out of countenance ; 
but his native subtlety and the coldness which lay at the 
root of his character revealed themselves unmistakably in his 
glance. 

Harry had received the news without betraying himself, 
but it was more than he could endure to stay and hear it 
talked over. The discussion was in fuU swing when he left 
the room, quietly whisthng an air from a comic opera. 

He ruefully admired his own acting, though it struck him 
how very easy it was to deceive the people who think they 
know you best. He set off at once for the Manor-House, de- 
termining, rashly enough, to make an attempt to see Viola. 

He thought that probably a violent reaction had set in after 
the heretical teaching of that afternoon on the water; that in 
the exaltation of repentance and the return to duty she had 
cut off her own possible retreat by at once fixing the day for 
her marriage. It was an act of atonement. Probably, how- 


AN ENCOTTNTER 127 

ever, a second reaction had taken place since then, and upon 
this Harry built his hopes. 

Having searched the garden in vain, there was nothing 
for it but to go to the house and ask for Mrs. Sedley in the 
usual w^. 

Mrs. ^dley appeared and entertained her visitor solemnly 
in the drawing-room among the “ lost souls’' and the grand 
piano. 

Harry thought he had never, in his life, found conversa- 
tion so difficult. His mind became a blank every time he 
looked at the dull, grey face of his hostess, whose voice alone 
was sufficient to check the imagination of a Shelley. 

“ Is— is your daughter at home?” he asked at length, feel- 
ing, if not looking, very guilty. 

“ Yes, she is at home, but she has a headache! Of course 
we are ah very busy preparing for the wedding.” 

“Naturally — I am sorry she has a headache.” 

“ Thank you; I have no doubt it will not last very long.” 

“ I suppose I — may I see her?” asked Harry, with sudden 
boldness. 

Mrs. Sedley looked rather surprised, but she said, “Cer- 
tainly,” and led the way to her own sitting-room, where Viola, 
in the cold northern light, among colourless cushions, Avas 
lying upon a severe-looking sofa. It seemed symbolical of 
her life. 

She sprang wj) to greet the visitor, whose presence appeared 
greatly to astonish her. She was pale and thin. The same 
constrained conversation went on as before, until the advent 
of tea afforded a merciful relief to the inventive powers of the 
unhappy trio. 

Harry was at his wit’s end, yet determined to make some 
attempt towards the attainment of his object, though he had 
to prolong his call till the curfew hour. A diversion, he hoped, 
might sooner or later occur, though Mrs. Sedley sat there with 
a polite and patient air of waiting till he shomd go that was 
most disconcerting. She looked, as usual, uncomplaining, but 
very suffering. Harry, however, was resolved. He went to 
the window on the pretext of looking at the view, and to his 
joy, he saw G-eoffrey crossing the lawn. He at once shouted 
to him. 

“Holloa I you here?” said Geoff ry, changing his direction. 
“ Don’t know if the mother will let me in with my dirty boots. 
Well, Ha, how’s the headache ? Look here!” and he held up 
a trout by the tail. 

“Eight-pounder!— there you are, mother; I lay it at your 
feet. I say, Harry, you might take the other two to your 
mother, with my compliments.” 

“ Thanks; she will be delighted.” 

Mrs. Sedley brightened a little as if expecting that he would 
take the trout and go ; but on the contrary, he established him- 
self solidly in an easy chair-and engaged in a dialogue with 


128 


THE WINa OF AZRAEL. 


Geoffry upon the subject of fishing, which contained a vital 
principle so vigorous as to promise for it little short of immor- 
tality. Mrs. Sedley sighed. She bad a great deal to do, and 
very little time to do it in ; Harry knew that, and glued him- 
self more firmly to his seat. He had propounded a theory 
about flies that Geoffry would not hear of for a moment ; 
and as Harry stuck to it obstinately, a long argument was 
the result. As Geoffry said, it was distressing to see a sensi- 
ble fellow making a fool of himself. 

At last Mrs. Sedley rose. “ Would Mr. Lancaster kindly 
excuse her ? she had some important letters ’’ 

Harry sprang up, indescribably polite. Mrs. Sedley must 
not for a moment think of letting him detain her. In the 
cause of science, he felt it his duty to root out a common 
error from Geoffry's usually clear mind, but 

This created a clamour ; and in the midst of it, Mrs. Sedley 
retired. After that, Geoffry found his opponent singularly im- 
proved in mental grasp. His arguments grew milder ; and be- 
fore long, he was brought to confess that he saw and retracted 
his error. 

Geoffry then became restless, as he usually did between 
four walls, and proposed to go out. Won’t Harry come too ? 

But Harry’s politeness would not allow him to desert Viola. 

“Oh, she won’t mind,” said Geoffry. 

In spite of her assent, however, he could not bring himself 
to commit this breach of manners. 

“ Well, then, yCu’d better stay and entertain her while I go 
and have a wash and brush up. I feel more picturesque than 
beautiful, more beautiful than clean !” and he went off by the 
open window. 

Harry watched him out of sight. Then he turned rapidly, 
glanced at the door, and went over to where Viola was sitting. 
He took her hand in his, and said quietly : 

“Viola, you have finally consented to this marriage in a 
fit of self-sacrificing ardour, and you are even now fright- 
ened of your deed. I have come to tell you again that you 
are wrong, and that you are doing what you will repent 
all your life. I have also come to tell you once more that 
I love you with all my heart and soul, and that I want you 
to promise to let me take you away from here to-morrow. 
If the pressure upon you is irresistible, as it seems to be, 
you must take my name— don’t start— take my name so 
that you cannot take his. You will return to your home, 
or do whatever else you please, without feeling that I 
have in any way or at any time a claim on you. I know that 
my proposal would receive hard names from most experienced 
people, but I re^rd all things as of less importance than your 
salvation. Wait one minute— let me speak — we may be in- 
terrupted at any moment. I must not disguise from you 
that there is some risk in this plan. It would create a scan- 
dal ; your good name might bo attacked. But, darling, is that 


AW ENCOUNTER. 129 

worth considering in comparison with what is proposed for 

you - the one mere talk of silly people, the other ” 

She winced and turned away with a gesture of passionate 
despair. 

“ 1 can’t balance things; I am bewildered and terrified.” 

‘ ‘ Upon my soul, I believe mine is the only way to save you !” 
he exclaimed. ‘‘I entreat, I beseech, you to consent to it.” 

“Oh, it is impossible — it is so deceitful, and how could I 
accept such a sacrifice ?” 

“To have saved you would be my reward. I have thought 
it all out; this is no hasty idea of mine, Viola. Have pity on 

S ourself and me. If you had consented to take refuge with 
[rs. Lincoln, it might have been managed without this more 
serious step, from which you shrink ; but since you will not — 
What’s that ?” 

Viola gave a little half-suppressed cry; for at the open 
window, with his hand playing with the tassel of the blind, 
stood Philip Dendraith, blandly smiling. When he smiled so, 
Viola always fell a nameless terror. 

“I hope I do not intrude,” he said, advancing into the room 
with slow, firm footsteps, as if he were enjoying something 
leisurely. 

“ Viola, my love, I am sorry to hear you are not well to- 
day.” He went up and kissed her on the mouth with an air 
of familiarity. 

Harry set his hps. 

“ You must excuse these little demonstrations, ’’said Philip, 
with a wave of his hand. “We haven’t met for a whole day, 
you know.” 

“ Pray don’t apologise to me,” said Harry, keeping guard 
over his voice. “Any apology you might think necessary 
would be due to Miss Sedley.” 

Philip glanced at him keenly out of the corner of his eyes 
and gave a cold smile. 

“I do hope I wasn’t interrupting something interesting, ” 
he said. “I know what you can beat your best— quite a 
Sheridan, upon my honour !” 

“Shall I go on for your benefit ?” said Harry, looking at 
his rival with steady eyes. 

“Pray do,” urged Philip, while Viola gave a frightened 
gesture. “Kindly allow me to find a comfortable chair first, 
that I may the more enjoy the treat in store for me. So — 
this is most luxurious. I didn’t know your mother would 
liave tolerated such a lounge in her house, Viola— itne chaise 
de Sybarite P' 

He leant back luxuriously, moving a little closer to Viola, 
so that he could lay his hand on the arm of her chair or touch 
hers now and again when it so pleased him. 

From such a man it would l3e impossible to conceal that 
something of a secret nature had been taking place when he 
entered; Viola’s cry of dismay had betrayed them. 


130 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


Seeing how matters stood and knowing what sort of enemy 
he had to deal with, Harry took a characteristic resolution. 

“ Your suspicions are just,” he said. “You did surprise a 
conversation between Miss Sedley and myself which we did 
not wish to be overheard.” 

“ Candide,'' murmured Philip, taking that work from the 
book-shelves and turning over the leaves carelessly. “ There 
is an interesting proverb of George Herbert’s which you may 
perhaps be familiar with : — ‘When the tree is fallen all go 
v/ith their hatchet.’ ” 

“Not yet is the tree fallen,” said Harry. “But I think it 
is better that it should fall. You must know that I have be- 
come acquainted with all the circumstances of your engage- 
ment.” 

Philip bowed. “ Your interest in our affairs is most flatter- 
ing.” 

“I will not mince matters,” Harry continued; “I know 
that Miss Sedley is being forced into the marriage,” — Philip 
looked round, — “ that you have taken advantage of her help- 
less position in the hands of parents who are willing to sell 
her to you — that’s the long and short of it — in order to extri- 
cate themselves from their financial difficulties.” 

Viola started up. “I cannot hear such things,” she cried. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Harry. “I was wrong— forgive 
me ; but I am at liberty to say that Mr. Dendraith is to all 
intents and purposes intending to marry you against your 
will, that you have asked him to release you, and that he re- 
fuses. I consider myself also at liberty strenuously to advise 
you to refuse to carry out your engagement and to dare 
eveiy thing rather than fulfil it.” 

“There is an audacity about you,” said Philip, looking up 
at him from his reclining attitude, that really carries one 
away. A degree less audacity— were it but a hair’s-breadth — 
and one would not tolerate you for a moment. I hope you are 
going to increase the dramatic effect by telling me that you 
have been proposing to Miss Sedley to elope with you. By 
the way, here is another proverb I might appropriately cite : 
‘ Where there is no honour there is no grief.’ ” 

Harry flushed deeply. 

“ Asi hold it quite unjustifiable to maiTy a woman who is 
not really free to refuse you, I hold it justifiable to rescue 
her by any means in one’s power. She is not to be sacrificed 
to an artificial code of honour.” 

“Bather more morality than honour about that view, me- 
thinks,” said Philip. “ Do you know, sir, that some men in 
my place would treat you in a manner that might be some- 
what compromising to your dignity.” 

“ It matters not to me what some men in your place might 
attempt,” said Harry; “I have to deal with you, and I am 
quite prepared to do so in any manner that may seem neces- 
sary.” 


IN VAIN 


131 


“ Perhaps we had better continue our little chat outside,” 
suggested Phihp, rising. “It is useless to trouble Miss Sed- 
ley with these trifles.” 

“Certainly, but I have very little more to saj. It is well, 
perhaps, that you should know that it is my design to oppose 
your marriage, and that I consider I have the right to do so 
by every means in my power.” 

“ The lady to the victor,” remarked Philip coolly as he led 
the way to the garden. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

IN VAIN. 

To the consternation of every one, and the indignation of 
Mr. Sedle3% Viola fell ill. The doctor said her nerves were 
unstrung, and that she must see nobody who might excite 
her, for at least a week. He regretted to have to be so bar- 
barous, but Mr. Dendraith must certainly not be admitted. 

Mr. Dendraith consigned the doctor to" perdition, and tried 
to prevail upon Mrs. Sedley to allow him to see Viola notwith- 
standing. Little did he know that meek and mild lady. She 
was immovable. He began to fear that the marriage would 
be put off, in which case Harry Lancaster might give trouble, 
though Philip trusted to his ov/n powerful influence and to 
that of Viola’s conscience to overcome all opposition. 

The doctor said the invalid only needed a little treatment, 
combined with perfect quiet, and there was no reason to post- 
pone the marriage, though a very long and fatiguing wedding 
tour was not to be advised. 

On the whole, perhaps Viola’s illness proved a safeguard for 
Philip, as Harry was unable to have any communication with 
her, and the appointed day was drawing always nearer. 

The prescribed week or quiet spread into ten daj^s, and 
these to a fortnight — terrible daj^s both for Viola and for 
Harry. Nor was Mrs. Sedlej^ much happier. Anxious as 
onl.y she knew how to be, she spent her strength in praying 
for an impossible faith, and found her only relief in a severe 
self-blame that she had it not without pra^ung for. 

As for Viola she did not know whether to wish these drag- 
ging days longer or shorter. 

At nightfall, relief that the strain of the day was over, 
and terror at the thought that another had passed, fought a 
pitched battle, which went on till exhaustion drew her into 
a restless sleep. There were times when she was cruelly 
tempted to write to Harry, and tell him she was ready to adopt 
his plan ; but the thought was thrust aside as inconceivably 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


132 


wicked. She was ashamed to tell her mother how hard she 
found it to do her duty. She would fall on her knees at night 
before the open window, and pray with all the passion of her 
soul for strength and guidance — pray that she might forget 
the words that Harry had spoken to her out on the sea, words 
which echoed in her brain and haunted her with their subtle 
and tempting sophistry. 

And now the house began to fill. Large numbers of re- 
joicing aunts and cousins and gleeful old friends came 
crowding in for the happy event, (as they would insist on call- 
ing it). Upton Court opened its disused chambers for the 
joyful members of the Dendraith connexion, who were so 
pleased that dear Phihp was going to settle down and become 
a sedate and respectable married man after his wild career in 
early life. 

Viola was now convalescent, and very busy helping her 
mother to entertain their guests. 

Once Harry had written to her, saying that up to the very 
last moment "he was always there ready and eager to carry 
out his proposed plan, if only she w^ould make an appoint- 
ment; but Viola wrote back entreating him not to write to her 
— her mother would wonder about the letter, and it could do 
no good. She thanked him warmly for his desire to befriend 
her, and said that she would never cease to remember his 
kindness. She took this opportunity of wishing him all good 
wishes, and remained his “ very gratefully, Viola.” 

He called after this, and found her in the drawing-room, 
among a roomful of people, pouring out tea. He fancied 
there was a new dignity in her manner— born, thought the 
onlookers, of the honours of coming wifehood ; really called 
forth, as Harry sadly divined, by the stimulus of great suf- 
fering. 

Once or twice he caught her glance, and made another 
mute appeal ; but she shook her head sadly, and turned away, 
and the miserable game went on. 

Two days before the wedding there was a dance at the 
Manor-House, to which all the countrj^-side was invited. 

Pliilip expressed a desire that Viola should dance with no 
one but himself that night, unless she first asked his permis- 
sion. It seemed to her to be taking airs of possession rather 
soon; but she said nothing, being too sick at heart, and too 
accustomed to follow her mother’s ideal of womanly submis- 
sion, to offer any resistance. Her recent illness would make 
a good excuse for refusing. 

The drawing-room was roused out of its long doze ; the lost 
souls, to their great amazement, had their glass cases taken ofi . 
and candles stuck into them ; the silken chairs were revealed 
in all their faded glory, and placed round the walls to make 
space for the dancers. The dim olrj room was unrecognisable. 

The dancing went merrily, thanks to ^Ir. Sedley’s undenia- 
ble social talents and to Sir* Philip’s energy, Mrs* Sedley ^vas 


ijsr vAm. 133 

unable to depress her guests, though she did her unconscious 
best in that direction. 

A boisterous country-dance was just over; the couples 
were hurrying into the hall, leaving only Lady Dendraith in 
a stiff-backed chair, with her chubby hands crossed on her 
lap, and her head drooping on her breast. According to es- 
tabhshed habit, the old lady was taking the opportunity for 
a quiet doze. Her son was out of the room, and there was 
nothing to keep her awake. 

Viola, who had not been dancing, remained behind when 
the crowd passed out, hoping for a little rest and quiet. 

Her white dress, soft and flowing, was very becoming to 
her. Philip had told her so to-night, and several others, not 
perhaps quite so competent to judge. 

She had a bunch of white roses in her hair and at her 
breast; and on her neck a small diamond crescent sparkled. 

Thinking she was alone except for the sleeping Lady Den- 
draith, she had leant her tired head back upon the red cush- 
ions of the sofa, and raised her hands to her forehead, cover- 
ing for a moment her eyes. 

When she removed her hands, Harry Lancaster was stand- 
ing looking down upon her. 

She started up. 

“ Oh, why do you come to me? It is not kind: you weaken 
me: for pity’s sake, go.” 

“Do you grudge me these farewell moments— I who love 
you so?” 

“Hush, it is wicked ! ” 

“That I don’t for a moment believe: the real wickedness 
is that ” 

“ You are mad !” she exclaimed. “We shall be overheard. ” 

“ Who can overhear ?” he asked, lowering his voice. ‘ ‘ Lady 
Dendraith is asleep.” 

“ Her son would hear you if you were ten miles away.” 

“Viola,” said a voice, at which she started, trembling 
violently, “ I’ve been seeking you everywhere.” 

“Except here, apparently,” said Harry. 

Philip looked his enemy up and down, and down and up, 
and then passed him by without comment. The whole thing 
was done with such quiet and exquisite insolence that Harry 
coloured to his temples, and Viola breathed quickly. 

With a sudden impulse he bent towai'ds her. 

“Will you give me this next dance?” he asked. He had 
chosen his time well. 

Philip took a step forward: “ Miss Sedley is engaged to me 
for it !” 

“ No,” said Viola, with sudden spirit, “ I did not promise it 
to you!” and she rose and laid her hand on Harry’s arm. 

Philip’s shrug of the shoulders and smile were not pleasant 
as the two went off together, He bad hidden his amazement 


134 THE WING OF AZRAEL. 

and anger as he hid, or could hide, almost any emotion, how- 
ever violent. 

But not for a moment did he lose sight of the couple as 
they whirled together among the dancers. He thought that 
Viola danced with more appearance of pleasure than she had 
danced before that evening, though previously he had been 
her partner. When had she vouchsafed to him such looks 
and tones ? Her face to his jealous eyes seemed softened and 
glorified. Never before had her imprisoned beauty made so 
triumphant an escape. 

Could it be possible that some other man had succeeded in 
quickening the throbs of that steadily beating heart, when he, 
Philip, had failed ? It seemed incredible, yet Viola’s coldness 
towards himself required some explanation. 

When the dance was over, and the couple left the balhroom, 
Philip rose and followed tliem at a distance. He was too 
prudent to openly display his jealousy, too jealous to let them 
out of his sight. A crowd in the doorway, however, pre- 
vented him from leaving the room for a few seconds, and 
Avhen he reached the hall the rebellious pair were nowhere to 
be seen. They had been tempted by the brilliant starlig:ht 
onto the terrace, where the gentlest and mildest of night airs 
was moving now and again a breathless leaf, murmuring here 
and there among the ivy. The great avenue looked very sol- 
emn and dark under the stars; the vast old trees showing 
against the sky, like silent sphinxes full of a secret knowl- 
edge n^ ver to be revealed. The human element was absent; 
the heart ached with the penetrating coldness of that awful 
omniscience, wherein there rvas no love and no pity. 

From the open windows of the ball-room stole presently 
the sad sweet notes of a waltz; ihat was the missing human 
note, full of longing and of sadness, of melanchcly almost 
rising to despair. 

The music seemed to rush forth, flood-like, assailing as a 
sea in tumult the fastness of that all-knowing silence. It was 
like the human heart, revolting against its narrow destiny, 
yearning unceasingly towards tlie larger, the lovelier, and the 
better, which haunt it forever, like the refrain of a sweet 
song, heard and half forgotten in by-gone days. 

‘•Hctiven help us!” exclaimed Harry, after another vain 
efliort to persuade Viola to consent to his plan. “ W hat were 
we sent for into this vast blind machine of a world, that goes 
grinding on century after century, and witli it grinding human 
nerves and hearts to powder? V/hat fiend was it that invented 
consciousness, that made torturable nerves, and hearts that are 
mere insignificant atoms of the universe, and yet capable, 
each poor atom, of such inflnile woe ? Surely we must be a 
mistake, an unlucky accident, tl-at occurred during the chem- 
ical experiments of some meddlesome God. and which ho has 
not taken the trouble to rectify or expnnge.” 

“I fear it is very wrong,’’ said Viola with a deep sigh; 


m vAm. 


185 


“but I have wondered myself, of late, why we were given 
, such power to feel pain, and at the same time placed in a 
world where duty always seems to lead to it.” 

“ Yes, and not-duty too,” said Harry. “You can’t dodge it, 
try as you will. I think the world is divided between people 
who are dull and don’t live at all — people who call themselves 
happy, but don’t know what the word means — and those who 
suffer mortal anguish, but who might know the joys of Para- 
dise here on earth, w'hose life is turned into a fiery torrent, 
which scorches instead of warming. That troublesome young 
God had a magnificent idea when he thought of us ; but he 
failed in the execution, and the result is a wreck and ruin as 
terrific as the creation might have been splendid. We are 
brothers of the gods, but we are broken into a thousand frag- 
ments.” 

“Perhaps some day we shall be able to glue ourselves to- 
gether again,” said Viola, with a sad little smile. 

“ We want the glue,” he returned, “and that glue is happi- 
ness and love, the two things that good people and bad alike 
deny us. . The world resists its own salvation !” 

Viola was silent. 

“Duty is better than happiness,” she said presently; “and 
better than love.” 

“Yet St. Augustine said: ‘Love, and do what you will!’ 
What else have we to save us from the loneliness of life, what 
else can protect us from its awful coldness and silence ?” 

He gave a movement towards the dark still avenue, and the 
glittering mystery of the heavens. 

“The more clearly one realises how we stand in this wilder- 
ness of a universe, the more one feels the need of close fellow- 
ship and love. It is not so much immortality as the eternity 
of love that our hearts imperiously demand. Now you see 
why I am so persistent, why I allow nothing to overcome me 
till hope is absolutely lost. We can piece together some of 
our broken fragment^ Viola; and I feel that you could and 
would love me it only I had a fair chance to make you under- 
stand your own latent self I” 

She trembled and turned away. 

“ If I am right, consider what you are doing in turning from 
me; to what outer darkness you condemn yourself (putting 
me out of the question).” 

“If my life proves unbearable, perhaps I shall die. God 
can’t let one live and suffer always !” 

“I don’t remember many cases in which ‘ God ’ has shown 
himself so considerate,” said Harry bitterly. 

“ Oh, don’t say such things, I implore you I” she cried. 

“You are buoying yourself up with false ideas, false hopes, 
false pieties, forgive me for saying so; but they are false, 
because they flatly and openly contradict the facts of life ; and 
in so far they war against truth, which is our one hope.” 

“I can’t argue with you. You confuse my ideas. I can 


136 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


only cling to what I have been taught, and try to do my duty 
accordingly. What else is possible to me ? You may be able 
to do right in your own way, — I don’t know, — but how can I ?” 

It was said so pathetically that Harry impulsively put out his 
arms, and folded them round her with protective tenderness. 

“Viola ! Viola ! it wrings my heart to see you fluttering like 
this in the meshes of a worn-out, lifeless old error. It is as if 
you were drowning in some deep sea, dragged down and 
smothered by a mass of tangled weeds, which you would not 
let me pull away. Some day you will see it all yourself; a 
rough, rude hand, instead of a gentle and loving one, will 
open your eyes, and then how bitter will be your regret, with 
no human being to comfort or to help you ” " 

“Except an insigniflcant creature called a husband,” ob- 
served a cool, polite voice through the darkness. “ He, how- 
ever, having not yet assumed that extinguishing title, ventures 
to claim the fulfilment of a promise to dance the next waltz 
with him— if it is not asking too much. Perhaps the fact of 
being a husband minus only two days depreciates him in an- 
ticipation.” 

Viola laid her hand in his proffered arm, murmuring some- 
thing about not knowing the dance had begun. 

“ Pray don’t apologize,” said Philip : “ it is for me to apolo- 
gize for my tactless intrusion.” 

They walked up the terrace together in silence. 

At the end Phihp paused, leaning against one of the stone 
pillars of the terrace. “You seem to And Mr. Lancaster’s 
conversation spiritually nourishing,” he remarked. 

Viola looked up, but made no reply. 

“ He is a very interesting young man,” said Philip. 

Again no answer, only a steady gaze. 

“His only fault is an unfortunate prejudice against myself; 
and as my experience somewhat confirms his opinion, I have 
of course but few objections to make to it.” 

A pause. 

“ I pride myself upon my tolerant spirit,” Philip continued 
urbanely. “I consider it uncouth to be intolerant, or even 
fractious. I don’t dissipate my forces in guerilla warfare.” 

In his insolent attitude, with his arm upon the pillar of the 
parapet, he looked down at his companion steadily, telling off 
his sentences one by one, and leaving a pause between each, 
so that they seemed to fall like stones into silent water, 

Viola’s eyes at last sank before his, and a tremor passed 
through her. 

“You are cold,” said Philip. “Would you like to go in ?” 

“I am not cold.” 

He bent forward and drew her white shawl closer round 
her. She shrank under his touch. 

“ Why, you are shivering!” he cried. “ It is dangerous to 
stay out here in your thin dress. I don’t want to have you 
laid up again. Delays are dangerous, especially with such a 


m VAIN. 


137 


very interesting young man coasting round. Flowing mous- 
taches and blue eyes, even in the absence of regular features, 
are not to be trusted. Don’t imagine for a minute that I bear 
him any ill-will ; I, in fact, sympathize heartily with his ad- 
miration for yourself.” 

He offered her liis arm with a bland smile, and led her into 
the house. 

‘‘I think, by the way,” he said, as they crossed the hall, 
“ that I asked you not to dance with anybody but myself to- 
night. It is perhaps a little freak of mine, but do you mind 
gratifying it ?” 

“I am not anxious to dance any more to-night,” said Viola; 
“ I am too tired.” 

Philip laughed. “You are no diplomatist, my love,” he 
said. “You might have pleased yourself and me at the same 
time had you been less uncompromisingly honest. How do 
you expect to govern your husband at that rate ?” 

“ I don’t expect it: my place is to obey.” 

“Yes, ostensibly; but you know there are circuitous routes 
as well as straight ones to the same spot. A wife can gener- 
ally attain her object if she knows how to manage cleverly, 
and I shall be charmed to be managed cleverly, I assure you, 
and promise to keep one eye permanently shut, so that you 
will have no difficulty in finding my blind side.” 

She remained silent. 

“On one or two points, I admit, I am apt to show my teeth ; 
and I am afraid— such is the infirmity of human nature— that 
Mr. Lancaster might cause me to snarl if he is not careful. 
But once out of range of these few reefs, there is nothing to 
expect but smooth sailing. You see I have been weak enough 
to fall in love, and that makes me very manageable. I am 
waiting, pining to be managed! Two short days more to 
pass, and then, my love, you will come and manage me! 
What prospect could be sweeter ?” 

How did it happen that, after all this profession of submis- 
sion on the part of her future husband, Viola left him that 
night with a more vivid sense of his dominating will than 
ever she had before ? 


138 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A BAD BEGINNING. 

Great anxiety prevailed at the Manor-House that the wed- 
ding day should prove fine. The bride alone did not share 
the anxiety, though she said “I hope so ” without fiagging 
Avhen the guests expressed their feelings with regard to the 
desirable omen. 

Lady Clevedon had come over the night before the wed- 
ding, with the intention of preventing Mrs. Sedley, as much 
as possible, from dwelling on the sadder aspects of the event. 

She brought witli her Arabella, whose unremitting spright- 
liness might be expected to have a cheering effect. 

But Arabella was only an accessory ; Lady Clevedon dis- 
creetly chartered Geoffrey for her enlivening purpose, Geof- 
frey being the only person who had ever been known to make 
his mother laugh. 

He reminded his aunt that this had been done at an enor- 
mous expenditure of vital force, by means of a terribly ener- 
getic imitation of an Irish reel, and only in the last wild par- 
oxysm had his mother displayed the slightest amusement. 
Geoffrey appealed to Lady Clevedon’s sense of propriety to 
convince her that the experiment could not be repeated in the 
present conditions. 

‘ ‘ My dear boy, be as foolish as you know how ; regard the 
occasion as a sort of carnival, and no one will say you nay!” 

“A most cheering invitation,” said Geoffrey, ‘‘but how is 
one to get up a carnival in a roomful of stuck-up wedding 
guests?” 

“They are only stuck-up because they are not amused; go 
and amuse them.” 

Geoffrey gave a rueful whistle ! 

“ Well, I call this simply cruelty to animals ! What would 
you have me do? Go up to my mother with my hands in my 
pockets, and ask her how she feels to-morrow?” 

“Graceless boy! To-morrow your mother will want all 
the consolation we can offer her.” 

“Well, that’s the sort of thing I never can understand!” 
said Geoffrey, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Mothers 
bring up their daughters on purpose to get married, and then 
require more pocket-handkerchiefs than can be afforded by 
any family of moderate means, when the happy event comes 
off!” 

“ You have much to learn before you understand women 
and their ways, my dear,” said the lady, with a laugh. 

“Oh, I’ve watched ’em,” said Geoffrey, “and it seems to 


A BAD BEGINNING. 


139 


me very much like watching a lot of young tadpoles in a 
pond. You see them wriggling and scuttling about, but you 
can’t for tlie life of you make out what they’re doing it for; 
and it’s my belief they don’t know, themselves.” 

“Which, tadpoles or women?” 

“Both, but of the two commend me to the tadpoles for 
method.” 

“You young heretic! Wait till you enter the woman’s 
empire, and then tremble! Luckily we hav§ our revenges! 
Ah! Viola, my dear, let me look at you; very nice, indeed. 
I'm glad to see the old lace again, and I hope you will wear it 
oftener than your mother did ; I call it wasting good lace to 
save it. Ah! and the nice old Dendraith diamonds too. 
Harry, doesn’t our bride look beautiful? It is good for a 
woman to be admired ; it makes her admirable. Philip has 
worked wonders already.” 

Viola was trembling and colouring, either at the praise or 
at Lady Clevedon’s appeal to her cousin to confirm it. 

“ And this is the bridegroom’s gift, is it not? Very lovely 
and most becoming! Did I not tell you,” Lady Clevedon 
added aside,* “that hers was a face to improve? The change 
came about sooner and more startlingly than I expected.” 

“ I think your niece is very lovely,” said Harry, simply 

Lady Clevedon at the moment darted off to the assistance 
of Mrs. Sedley, to whom social duties were always arduous, 
and Harry Lancaster approached the bride. 

She stood with her hands clasped before her, not looking 
up. He saw that she was breathing quickly. 

“ I hope you wmn’t be angry with me if I ask you to accept 
a small wedding gift?” he said in a not very steady voice. 
“It is a little antique knife I got in Italy, of little use; but I 
thought its chasing finely done. It is said to have belonged 
to the Colonna family; but it is now put to the peaceful pur- 
poses of a paper-knife or a mere ornament.” 

He handed her as he spoke an instrument of finely tern 
pered steel, with an elaborate handle exquisitely chased. 

“The blade is rusty; the man in the shop I bought it at 
assured me as a recommendation that the mark is really on 
old blood-stain. He looked ready to stick it into me when I 
laughed.” 

“ How^ beautiful! and how good of you!” she said. “ I shall 
value this very much.” 

She hesitated for a moment and then thrust it through the 
coils of her hair. 

“How perfectly charming!” exclaimed the watchful 
Arabella, rapturouslj'. ‘ ‘ Really, of all your wedding presents 
I envy you this the most. There is something most fascinat- 
ing about it ! It looks as if it might have done many a secret 
deed of darkness before it was promoted to these gayer 
offices! I am sure it must have some sinister history. It 
makes you look quite dangerous. Miss Sedley, but so interest- 


140 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


ing! Doesn’t it, Mr. Lancaster? Quite a Liicrezia Borgia. 
We shall be hearing dreadful things of you, I am sure, — it 
will be quite kind of you to give a new sensation ; do let it be 
something striking, won’t you? Paper-knife or mere orna- 
ment as it is, I must confess I shouldn’t like to have it raised 
against me ! But it won’t be me, I am sure ; I never made 
anybody jealous — much more likely this Mrs. Lincoln, who 
is coming to live here and shock us" all. Mr. Lancaster, you 
don’t know what responsibility may rest on your shoulders; 
it is really a dangerousg ift— why, it would make one long to 
comiTut a. murder for the mere pleasure of using it.” 

“ It would really be a sin to waste it,” said Geoffrey. 

“ Flying in the face of Providence,” added Harry, “ which 
has provided all things for our use. ” 

“Now then, Viola my dear, we must be off,” said Aunt 
Augusta. “ Mrs. Courtenay, Mr. Lancaster, be good enough to 
go in the next carriage, and the bride and I will follow in the 
last.” 

In a moment the room was cleared, and the carriage drove 
off. 

“What has become of that girl’s shyness!” exclaimed Lady 
Clevedon, straining her eyes to catch the last glimpse of the 
white still figure of the bride, as she stood, bouquet in hand, 
upon the doorstep. 

Harry made no reply, but the thought crossed his mind that 
gi’eat misery and great shyness were perhaps likely to coun- 
teract one another. 

“ I am so glad the day is so fine,” said Lady Clevedon pres- 
ently ; “it will put them all in good spirits.” 

“Yes,” Harry answered. 

The weather was fine certainly, but it was not one of those 
languorous days of summer that suggest nothing but rest and 
peace. 

The sunshine had indeed a singular brilliance, but there 
was a blusterous wind careering over the land, swaying the 
ripening corn, and making the trees rustle and coinplain of 
the rough treatment. 

Overhead, too, the cloud masses had been scattered by the 
wild wind: no form had been left them; they were strewn in 
ragged streamers across the sky, gleaming with captured 
light. 

But thei-e was no suggestion of pain or passic-)!! in the as- 
pect of the roughly handled clouds; rather a great joy in the 
infinite breadth of the heavens and the ecstasy of perfect 
freedom. 

The grey old church, roused out of its habitual calm, was 
tlie centre of a scene of subdued excitement. Society in the 
village was stirred to its depths : only the bedridden remained 
at home to-day; the tiniest infants were rapt from their cra- 
dles and carried by eager mothers to the lych gate, where 
one by one the carriages drew up and the gay wedding-guests 


A BAD BEGINNim 141 

alighted, sweeping or tripping or hurrying into the church, 
according to habit and character. 

Lady Clevedon was among those who did her alighting de- 
liberately, giving directions to the coachman in decisive 
tones, and then walking coolly along the paved pathway be- 
tween the graves, to the grey old doorway in the ivy-covered 
tower. 

This was the last arrival before the centre of all interest — 
the bride. 

The old Manor-House coachman, with a backbone that any 
steeple might be proud of, whipped up his horses on entering 
the village, and the carriage dashed up to the lych gate 
amidst an amount of dust and flourish and prancing that 
made one or two of the younger children cry. 

Mr. Sedley alighted first, and was greeted with a cheer; 
then came a cloud of something soft and white, like the foam 
of the breakers, whose moan even here, in the moment’s ex- 
cited pause that followed her appearance, the bride could just 
catch above the rustling of the wind. 

There was a deafening shout, and then a shower of roses, 
honeysuckle, and cottage flowers fell at her feet. 

Many a “God bless you!” “Long life and happiness to 
you !” followed her as she walked between the tombstones on 
her father’s arm ; while suddenly the old tower started into 
life, and sent out a peal of wedding-bells which was heard for 
miles along the quiet country,— those eternal wedding-bells 
ushering in the sorrow’s of the ceaseless generations! The 
sunshine was pouring down upon the pathway, but the wind 
seemed as if it would prevent the bride from entering the 
church, so angrily did it bluster round her, and press against 
her slight form as she bent forward to resist it. 

As the wind among sea-foam, that western blast made her 
garments shiver and flutter together, as if in fear. 

“She looks like a angel!” exclaimed one enthusiastic 
woman among the crowd, holding up her indifferent infant 
for a last look as the white figure disappeared through the 
church-door. 

“They’ll make a lovely pair!” asserted another admirer. 
“ And don’t the old gentleman look proud about it all!” 

“The poor lady don’t seem quite pleased, though ; she’s that 
white and thin, I’m thinking the poor thing’s got something 
wrong with her liver. As I was a-saying to George only the 
other day”— and so on; the oracular remark made to George 
being to the effect that only a box of Parr’s Lif 3 Pills stood 
between Mrs. Sedley and the grave. 

Several people recalled memories of the wedding of Mr. and 
Mrs. Sedley at this very church: among them “old Willum.” 
He however, with patient humility was ready at once to with- 
draw his reminiscences in favor of those of any person who 
might think his own superior. Several did so, and Willum 
faded quietly into obscurity. 


142 


THE WINQ OF AZRAEL. 


There was a dim, wistful look in his eyes as they followed 
the young bride up the pathway to the church: only yester- 
day, it seemed, she had chattered to him in her childish way. 
taken him into her confidence about her tadpoles and her 
pets; or entreated him, with tears in her eyes, not to go on 
working in the rain. The lonely old man loved her faitlmdly, 
and his heart ached as he thought of the Manor-House hence- 
forth without her. 

Within the church, when the bells ceased, was a solemn 
hush. The wedding-guests were ranged along the church, 
looking like a set of gaily dressed and very properly disposed 
dolls. 

At the altar sto6d the bridegroom. 

“ How distractingly handsome he looks!” exclaimed Ara- 
bella in a whisper to her neighbour. “ If he weren't so nearly 
a married man I should really fall in love with him.” 

“ You have still a few seconds to indulge in a transient pas- 
sion,” said Lady Clevedon contemptuously, 

‘‘ Alas, he is already claimed !” cried Arabella with a sigh. 
“ Look with what grace he greets the bride ! It is charming ! 
And those few sweet words that he whispers in her ear.” 

The bride’s reply, had it been overheard, would have scan- 
dalized the spectators not a httle. 

‘'Please do not forget that I am here against my own wish, 
and can have no response in my heart for such speeches! 
And one thing more: Please do not forget that what I say 
to-day is said with my lips only !” 

There was no time to answer, for the ceremony w^as about 
to begin. Philip had counted on the effect of the solemn 
service upon one of Viola’s scrupulous temperament. He 
thought that she would feel the sacredness of the oaths she 
was taking, and that victory for him would be half won by 
the strokes of her own vigorous conscience. He was quite 
unprepared for her repudiation of the whole service, and this 
continued ox)position, meek and quiet as it was, roused the 
very worst side of his character. His bride, he reflected, had 
got to learn the difference between a lover and a husband. 

Over the altar was a stained glass window of mellow tint- 
ing, through which the sunshine streamed. Ev^ery colour 
and shade of colour was there, blending, softening, gleaming, 
growing deeper or paler with the changing light and the oc- 
casinal shadowing of a tree outside blown back and forwards 
by the wind. Viola was standing in the line of the sun’s 
rays, and the colours stained her dress, passing across her in 
a broad band of radiance, and falling on the cold stone floor 
behind her and on the half-effaced brasses at her feet. Upon 
her bosom a deep blood-red stain glowed in fiery brilliance, 
like the symbol of some master passion in her heart — or, 
perhaps a death-wound ! She stirred not until the time came 
when the hands of bride and bridegroom were joined, and 


A BAD BEGINNING 148 

then she gave a slight, scarcely perceptible shiver, which, 
however, was not not lost upon Harry or upon Philip. 

''Those whom God hath joined together let no man put 
asunder T 

To the triumphant strains of the wedding-march, bride and 
bride-groom walked back along the aisle to their carriage. 

Was it only Viola who heard in that wonderful outburst 
the ring of something infinitely sad and hopeless? 

“You look cold, my love,” said Philip, when he and his 
bride were on their way back to the Manor-House, the sound 
of the bells still pursuing them in noisy and rather foolish 
rejoicing. 

“ Can I put a shawl round you ?” 

“ Oh ! I am not cold, thanks,” said Viola. 

“Excitement a little too much for you, perhaps. Well, 
that will soon be over now. They can’t amuse themselves at 
our expense much longer, let us be thankful. Soon I shall 
have you all to myself.” He put his arm round her and was 
about to draw her closer, when his eye caught the glitter of 
the Sicilian ornament in her hair. 

“What’s this?” he asked. “Another wedding gift? Un- 
common fine work, this— antique, and of the best Renaissance 
period. But what a murderous -looking thing to wear in your 
hair !” 

“ It is meant to be used for a paper knife, or merely to be 
regarded as a curiosity,” said Viola. 

“ It is a real work of art, there’s no doubt of that. Who is 
the possessor of so much artistic ” 

“ Harry Lancaster gave it to me.” 

Philip looked round. 

“Indeed! It is very obliging of Harry Lancaster; but I 
object to your receiving present from him, especially of this 
character. If cne believed in omens, it might make one un- 
comfortable. You’ll excuse me, but I must take possession 
of this sinister-looking hair-pin. I can’t allow you to keep it.” 

Viola flushed up. “It was given to me, not to you,” she 
said, “ and I cannot surrender it.” 

“ Cannot is not exactly the word to use to me, my dear.” 

"Will not, then,” she said hastily. 

Philip looked at her in astonishment. “I am unable to 
congratulate you on your wisdom, Viola. To begin your 
married life by deliberate opposition and disobedience is not 
the act of a sensible woman, out of a pettish child.” 

“I cannot part with my gift,” Viola persisted. 

“ My dear, I have told you that I cannot allow you to keep 
it. What is to happen in such a case ? You know quite well 
that Lancaster behaved in a way that is unforgivable. I 
consider that the conduct has been throughout ungentle- 
manly. We stand to one another in a hostile attitude. He 
did his utmost to supersede me in your affections ; we meet on 
terms of enmity. Such being the case, I consider it a piece 


144 


THE WING OF AZEAEL. 


of infernal cheek on his part to give you a present ; and I must 
insist on your returning it at once.” 

“No, no, I cannot, I cannot!” she cried with rising excite- 
ment as Philip bent forward to take the object of dispute 
from her. 

“Now, don’t be foolish,” he said; “can’t you understand 
the situation and be reasonable ? It is impossible for my 
wife, in existing circumstances, to wear the gift of Harry 
Lancaster. 

“ I won’t wear it, then,” said Viola. “Only don’t take it 
away from me.” 

“You must give it back; there is no alternative: and if 
you Vv'on’t, I must. Will you give it back?” 

“I liave already accepted it; I can’t give it back.” 

“Then you leave me no choice.” 

She had" the knife clasped in her right hand. Philip began 
gently enough but resolutely to open the fingers. Striving to 
close them again, she unclasped from her neck the diamond 
ornament, Philip’s gift, with her free hand. 

“Will you give back that dagger?” 

“I would rather give back these,” she answered, holding 
out the glittering trinket. 

Philip’s face darkened. “Infatuated woman! Do you 
want to ruin our chance of peace at the very outset?” 

“lAvill obey you in all other things. I accepted this gift 
not as your wife, but as myself. I was not your wife then, 
in fact. Will you not leave me even a little remnant of in- 
dividuality ? Am I always to be your wife, never myself ? 
I have not questioned your authority, but you ask for more 
than authority. You ask me to surrender my personality. 
The greatest despot only commands, he does not altogether 
extinguish, his subjects. You go too far even for a husband.” 

“You talk too much nonsense even for a wife,” said Philip. 
“ The world regards and criticises you now as my wife and 
nothing else. What else are you ? You have no other stand- 
ing or acknowledged existence. Therefore, naturally I have 
a (ieep interest in your conduct. I am sorry to have to be- 
gin our married life with a disagreement; but you really 
must understand from the outset, once for all, what our rela- 
tions are to be. I desire nothing better than to be a kind and 
indulgent husband; but on such points as this, I ca^ brook 
no dispute. Now, pray, let’s have no more of it. Give me 
that bauble without further fuss. We are near home and 
must have no scenes.” 

But Viola’s fingers only tightened their grasp as the car- 
riage approached the avenue of the Manor-House. 

“Very well then, I must use a little muscular persuasion ; 
there is no time to lose!” 

As he did so, Viola held the diamonds, which she had in 
her left hand, out of the window. “On this one point T too 


145 


UPTON CASTLE. 

i 

am determined,” she said: “if you take my gift I drop the 
necklace.” 

With a muttered oath, Philip relaxed his hold. 

“ Obstinate woman ! You don’t know when the last pay- 
ment will he made for this !” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

UPTON CASTLE. 

“ Now, Marion, if you are not content you ought to be, and 
I will listen to no plaints. Viola writes regularly and cheer- 
fully (her style is really rather stately and good); her hus- 
band appears to be kind to her, and I cannot see what you 
have left to make yourself miserable about.” 

“Oh! I am not miserable, Augusta; only anxious, a little 
anxious.” 

“ Now pray, Marion, what for ?” demanded Lady Clevedon 
brusquely. “Do you suppose that avalanches are lying in 
wait for your daughter, and precipices defying the laws of 
nature at every turn?” 

Mrs. Sedley was silent. She did not dare to tell her sister- 
in-law that it was the very cheerfulness of Viola’s letters that 
caused her anxiety. She could gather nothing from those 
clear, unemotional epistles, couched in language which had a 
certain quiet force, and vaguely suggested that the writer held 
man 5^ unsaid thing.s in reserve. 

“I must wait till she comes home,” thought the mother, 
“and then I shall easily be able to judge.” 

The wedding-tour was now nearly over, and the happy 
pair were expected to arrive at their home at the end of the 
week. 

Lady Dendraith drove over daily to Upton Castle, endeav- 
ouring to brighten up the tumbledown old place, and give it, 
as far as possible, a bridal appearance. Her task was indeed 
a hard one. Of all gloomy old houses that ever a well inten- 
tioned mother attempted to make look bridal, surely Upton 
Castle was the most hopeless. The poor lady gazed at its 
gaunt rooms, and listened to the ceaseless moaning of the 
waves below its windows, in despair. Her one idea for effecting 
a bridal appearance was white satin; but after the introduc- 
tion of an inordinate number of fire-screens, sofa-cushions, 
photogi’aph-frames, album-covers, and other ornaments made 
of this festive material, the sole resource became exhausted, 
and still the shadows lingei*ed gloomily in the corners, and 
hung like a canopy about the ceilings oi the vast old rooms. 

Lady Dendraith, sitting gazing at her unsuccessful distri- 


146 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


bution of white satin in the ffreat drawing-room,— her bonnet, 
from sheer perturbedness or spirit, edged to one side, — was a 
sight piteous to behold. The dreariness of tiie place, now in 
the throes of a thorough cleaning, was enough to discourage 
the most hopeful. 

It seemed as if the effort to make the long-disused house 
once more a human habitation had disclosed a host of dismal 
secrets. After a lapse of nearly a hundred years, daylight 
streamed into musty rooms and corridors, where ancient 
spiders had established themselves in forgotten corners,— 
spiders with long pedigrees, and a goodly array of corpses to 
attest their title to distinction; and alas I these respectable 
creatures now found themselves suddenly swept away, by a 
democratic Turk’s-head, and vrondered irefully what things 
were coming to ! 

The care-taker of ten years’ standing — a person of such in- 
tense and awful respectability that Lady Dendraith felt 
frightened of her — was tall and strangely thin, with a face 
tapering at each end to a nice point, a pair of small eyes, and 
a long, pale-yellow nose. Smooth, iron-grey hair, brushed 
down over her brow, and severely plaited at the back of the 
head, seemed a rebuke to all forms of frivolous hairdressing. 

But if Mrs. Barber’s appearance was awe-inspiring, her lan- 
guage was something that might turn one to stone. Poor 
Lady Dendraith felt like a lisping child in the presence of 
this living dictionary. 

“Well, Mrs. Barber,” she would say with humility on her 
arrival at the Castle, “how are you getting on?” 

With a stately inclination of the head Mrs. Barber would 
reply: “I am gratified to be able to inform your Ladyship 
that the preparations are progressing with as much celebrity” 
(the good woman’s copiousness and accuracy were not exactly 
on a par) “ as the circumstances will admit!” 

“Oh! I am glad of that; the time is getting short, you 
know, and w^e seem rather behindhand. You see, my son 
will bring homo his young wife on Tuesday, and I am anxious 
to have everything looking nice and bright for their recep- 
tion.” 

“I can enter into your Ladyships sentiments,” returned 
the august one with a stately bend of the head ; “but as to the 
]4aco looking bright,! don’t anticipate that it is ever likely to 
do that. I have resided here now for ten years, and I cannot 
remember that I ever saw it look, as one might say, cheerful. 
Them waves”— Mrs. Barber did relax a little from the aus- 
terity of her language under stress of emotion— “ them waves 
are that mournful, beating, day in, day out, against the clitf- 
side, that at times I do assure your Ladyship I have felt as if 
I must give a month’s notice to go on the spot. At night, 
when the place is shut up, it’s as still as a churchvard, barring 
the rats in the garret, which worrits about among the lumber 
like creatures taken leave of their senses. And the size of 


VPTON CASTLE. 


147 


'em! Your Ladyship wouldn’t believe it!” said Mrs. Barber 
with much feeling, “but the tramp and scamper of them 
nasty beasts over my head is more like a man’s footsteps than 
a vermin’s.” 

“Dear me! Why don’t you let the cat into the garret, 
Mrs. Barber?” 

The bony form of the housekeeper turned straight round 
and faced her alarmed employer. 

“Did I understand your Ladyship aright? Give my poor 
Maria to be worried by them great animals?” 

“Oh! very well, Mrs. Barber,” said Lady Dendraith meek- 
ly; “if your Maria is afraid of the rats ” 

“What cat can do, Maria for many years ’as done,” said 
Mrs. Barber, “and for no other family would she have don® 
as much; I say it with respect.” Giving a slight sniff as a 
delicate finish to her remarks, Mrs. Barber turned again, and 
led the way to the dining-room. 

“Oh! this seems more forward,” said Lady Dendraith; 
“but those old portraits look sadly gloomy, and I should 
much like to give them a little cleaning up, but Mr. Philip 
laughs at me. Still, for a young bride one feels that every- 
thing ought to be as cheering as possible.” 

When Lady Dendraith visited the drawing-room her heart 
sank. 

It was enormously large and loftv; the light from the win- 
dows which faced on the sea and a bleak foreground of rocks, 
was powerless to drive the shadows from the farther end of 
the room, or to rise to the high ceiling. The furniture, of a 
vast and stately character, stood in severe symmetry along 
the walls ; not a footstool remained unbalanced by a brother 
footstool staring at it from the opposite side of the vast fire- 
place, or from a corresponding sofa. It was difficult to im- 
agine this gloomy saloon the kingdom of a young bride. 

“ Poor young thing; I wish the place had been a little less 
lonesome for her. I dare say she will be able to make a snug 
corner for herself out of the ante-drawing-room, though, do 
v/hat it will, it looks unhomelike. I did think the red carpet 
and blue curtains would have cheered it im !” 

In a somewhat depressed mood, Lady Dendraith returned 
to her own cosy home, leaving the housekeeper to her Maria 
and the redoubtable rats. 

The eventful day proved wet. Before sunrise a mist lay 
across the sea, and crept inland, spreading over hill and val- 
ley, and soon obliterating every object of the landscape. It 
was to a world without form, a void, a blank, expressionless 
world, that the young wife was to be welcomed. Five 
months had passed since she left her home on that brilliant 
July morning, and the summer meantime had given place to 
the dreariness of a spiritless November. 

As the sound of (*arriage-wheels at length announced the 
arrival of the expected travellers, the hall-door was thrown 


148 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


open, and Mrs. Sedley stood revealed on the doorstep, her 
figure defined against the fireglow of the great hall behind. 
A little in her rear was Mrs. Barber and the portly butler, 
while on the stone ledge which flanked the flight of cold grey 
steps stood Maria, with tail erect and glittering eyes, in an 
attitude of excited expectancy. 

The next moment the occupants of the carriage had 
mounted the steps, and the bride was folded in her mother’s 
arms. 

The embrace was long and silent. Philip then shook 
hands with Mrs. Sedley, cordially inquiring about her 
health, and thanking her for having come to welcome them. 

“You see I have brought back your daughter safe and 
sound,” he said, cheerfully. “She is rather pale to-night 
after all our joumeyings, but I hope the rest will soon make 
her look like herself again. What a magnificent fire ! None 
of your ordering, Mrs. Barber, I am sure. You know what 
sworn enemies you and I used to be in old times about your 
fires. ” (“ It’s my belief the respectable person’s chilling appear- 
ance put them out,” he added aside, with a laugh.) “ Upon 
my word,” he went on, looking round the shadowy hall, now 
filled with the fitful light of blazing logs, “the place looks 
really comfortable. What do you say, Viola ?” 

“ Most comfortable,” she assented. 

Mrs. Sedley had led her to a large chair by the fire-place, 
removed her wraps, and made her warm her cold feet and 
hands before the blaze. Maria, all curiosity, was circling 
round mother and daughter, with curbing back and agitated 
tail. Finally she rubbed herself against Viola’s knee, and 
then jumped onto her lap. 

“ Welir exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Barber in amaze- 
ment; “ I never see Maria do such a thing in her life before. 
I couldn't have believed it !” 

With a gesture that was almost passionate, Viola had wel- 
comed the animal and folded it in her arms. Her head was 
bent down for the instant, and when she raised her face again 
it was very white. Mrs. Sedley looked anxiously at her. 
What was the undefinable change that she saw in her daugh- 
ter’s manner and expression? A change too subtle to be de- 
scribed, yet distinct enough to make Mrs. Sedley feel more 
than doubtful whether she could now discover her daughter’s 
frame of mind. Viola seemed to have wandered away to a 
great distance. There was something a little careless, a little 
indifferent, in the carriage of the head, in the voice and ges- 
tures; and it struck Mrs. Sedley that she took but a slight in- 
terest in her new home. 

Mrs. Barber, who had secretly resented the idea of a mis- 
tress, came to the conclusion that she and the lady might get 
on well enough together if the lady were careful. 

Mrs. Sedley, Mrs. Barber, and Maria presently conducted 
the newcomer to her bedroom— a vast, dim space over the 


UPTON CASTLE. 


149 


drawing-room, with the same large, unsuccessful windows, 
and the same symmetrical arrangement of Brobdignag furni- 
ture. 

Below, a repast awaited the travellers ; and Viola was exhort- 
ed to come down as soon as possible, as she looked worn out 
and must be hungry. 

“ Yes, hungry I am !” she said ; “ I feel at present as if food 
and rest ought to content any human being, and yet curiosity 
is not quite chased away.” ghe drew aside the curtains as 
she spoke, and peered out into the night. ‘‘ Pitch darkness!” 
she said with rather a singular intonation. 

“ The window looks out to the sea,” remarked Mrs. Sedley, 
“ but come, dearest; that you can admire at your leisure to- 
morrow.” 

An involuntary sigh escaped the young mistress of the 
house ^t the word “ to morrow hut it was checked midway 
as she added with a smile: “Absurd curiosity indeed, since 
I shall have my whole lifetime in which to indulge it!” 

Mother and daughter descended the stairs together, fol- 
lowed in a zigzag course by the singular and devoted cat. 
Viola took her up and place! heron her shoulder, entering 
the dining-room with the creature curling itself affectionately 
about her neck and face. 

“I wish I were an artist!” exclaimed Philip, rising and 
coming over to his wife. “ You have no idea what a charm- 
ing picture you and Maria make.” 

An undefinable change of expression passed across her face, 
as she altered the admired attitude, taking the cat in her 
arms and folding her close against her breast. 

“The credit of it rests with Maria,” she said, moving away 
towards the fireplace 

The butler — a portly person like an overgrown Cupid — 
presently announced that the meal was on the table, and the 
three forthwith sat down in a rather constrained and uncom- 
fortable manner to their repast. Their voices seemed to wake 
a thousand hollow whispers in the vast room, and had a 
strange, ominous sound mingling with the eternal boom of 
the waves. To Viola, it seemed as if each of the portraits 
was gazing at her in the cold, omniscient manner pecuhar to 
those works of art. Everything about the place was weird, 
and hushed, and mysterious; there was something blood- 
chilling at times even about Maria, who had a way of appear- 
ing suddenly in unexpected places or springing without 
warning onto the back of one’s chair. 

“It’s my belief that cat’s bewitched,” Philip said; “ see the 
way she glares at me with her green eyes !” 

“ I read somewhere that green eyes are the truest of all 
eyes,” said Viola. 

“ Perhaps that’s why they are so rare,” Philip observed. 
“ Get away, you green-eyed monster. I know I shall dream 


150 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


of you to-night; and that’ll not be a night-mare exactly, but 
something worse.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Sedley, after some time had passed in 
desultory talk, “I think the best thing this tired child can do 
is to go to bed, and put off seeing her new domain till morn- 
ing, when I hope the weather will have changed and every- 
thing be at its brightest and best. Then she will have to in- 
stal herself as mistress of the house, and make Mrs. Barber 
understand that she no longer jjas supreme authority!” 

Philip laughed. “ I expect the good Barber will grievously 
resent her dethronement, and we shall hear some majestic 
English on the head of it! 1 hope she won’t take umbrage 
and go. She is honest as the day, and devoted to the family.” 

“She shall not go because of me, I promise you,” said Viola, 
with something in her manner that was new to it. “It would 
be better I should go myself. I can perhaps equal her in hon- 
esty, but I cannot claim to have served the family for so many 
devoted years.” 

She spoke jestingly, and Philip laughed a little, but he 
glanced at her in a manner not exactly amused. 

“ Dearest,” said Mrs. Sedley again, “ you must really go to 
bed now, you are looking so tired.” 

Viola rose, and mother and daughter left the room 
Philip sprinmng up to open the door for them. He 
to his place by the fire, with a changed expression. The polite 
cheerfulness and even gaiety of his demeanour during the 
evening suddenly fell from him like a mask. His brow 
clouded, and his thin lips set themselves in a hard, disagree- 
able line. 

Much to her chagrin, Maria had been left behind in the 
dining-room, alone with her master. A faint “miaw” di,5- 
turbed his sinister meditations. He looked up with a frown, 
saw the cat, and, following a quick savage impulse, he put 
out his foot and kicked her to the other side of the room, 
hearing, not without satisfaction, a dull thud as the creature 
struck against the panelling. Piteous cries followed, as 
Philip rose, lifted the cat in his arms, and, walking across the 
room, quietly put her outside the door. There on the hard 
stone floor, with her leg broken, the poor creature passed the 
night, and there she was found by her distracted mistress 
next morning, the animal trying, in her joy, to limp towards 
her as she heard the familiar footstep. 


together, 

returned 


EXILED, 


151 


CHAPTER XXII. 

EXILED. 

Maria’s broken leg was at once bound up, and she found 
herself in a position of even greater importance than usual. 

Viola begged to have the wounded creature beside her in 
her sitting-room, where she could tend her and give her her 
food. This, and her evident concern for the animal, won the 
housekeeper’s heart. No war was declared between the new 
mistress and her commander- in -chief. Mrs. Barber was even 
ready to indulge her well-conducted lady with a semblance of 
authority. 

“ If there is anything that you would like altered, ma’am,” 
said the housekeeper, graciously, “ I hope you won’t hesitate 
to say so. Her ladyship arranged the furniture as she thought 
best, but of course you are quite at liberty to make any little 
changes as you might prefer; everybody has their own taste, 
which of course it’s no blame to them, but only what is natu- 
ral.” 

“I think I have no taste of my own,” said Viola; “ it seems 
to me impossible that any of the furniture could stand in any 
other position, and I do not wish it altered.” 

And from that moment it seemed as if a spell had been cast 
over the place, as over the palace of the Sleeping Beauty; not 
a chair or a table, or so much as a footstool, budged by a 
hair’s breadth from its accustomed spot. Viola’s decree had 
petrified the house in its present form, and there it remained, 
solemn, solid, and eternal. It seemed as if its dignitj^ must 
confound even the thunders of the Day of Doom, and might 
be expected to live through that crisis, calm and undisturbed. 

Mrs. Barber never ceased to marvel at ]\Iaria's strange acci- 
dent. 

•‘I left her with you and Mr. Philip in the dining-room, as 
safe and sound as she could be; and in the morning— — ! Per- 
haps she left the room with you and Mrs. Sedley,” the house- 
keeper suggested. 

Viola was never very explicit on this point. She could not, 
or would not, state w^hether the cat came out of the room or 
remained behind with Philip, and as Mrs. Barber had a whole- 
some dread of that polite gentleman, she dared not question 
him, as she longed to do. So the affair remained a mystery. 

Mrs. Sedley had to leave on the following morning, as Mr. 
Sedley was not very well ; but it had been arranged that Viola 
was to drive with her to the Manor-House for lunch, return- 
ing home to dinner in the evening. 

“ It appears to me, ma’am, that Mrs. Sedley ’s own indispo- 


152 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


sition is not what it should he,” said the housekeeper. “I 
never see anybodj^ look so like death — never !” 

This speech, wliich was intended in the most friendly and 
complimentary spirit, made Viola turn pale. Her eyes wan- 
dered mournfully out to the sea, w’hose grey waters could this 
morning be dimly discerned through sheets of driving rain. 
Mrs. Sedley’s white face and the deep, dark circles under the 
eyes told a tale she would vain have concealed. Last night, 
when for a short half-hour mother and daughter had been 
alone together, Viola had entreated to be allowed to return 
home for a little while, just to look after the invalid , and take 
some of her old duties again ; but Mrs. Sedley, with tears in 
her eyes, had firmly refused. 

“ if our duty now is to your husband,” she said, “ and I will 
never let you neglect that for my sake.” 

When the housekeeper left her, Viola remained in precisely 
the same attitude, gazing out to sea. The weaves were tossing 
restlessly, forming for ever in new vigour, like endless gene- 
rations, to culminate, and then roll over and lose their indi- 
viduality in the waste of waters. How fresh and eager they 
looked as they climbed up to the breaking-point, wearing 
their crown of surf for a moment, and then, with what a peace- 
ful sweep, they sank to the level of the waters, and lost the 
fever of their short lives in a gentle annihilation ! 

Viola’s thoughts were breaking the bounds of her teaching. 
She rose, shook her head angrily, trying to banish them, but 
they streamed out triumphantly beyond all the limits that 
she set to their flowing. What had come to her ? Viola re- 
membered, with a sense of relief, that the i-est of the day 
would be passed in her mother’s society and in the old scenes. 
Surely these evil spirits would be exorcised there. Philip 
was to be out all day; he had business to attend to. Not till 
evening would he return ; and then husband and wife were 
to have their first tete-d tMe meal in their own home. If 
only she could ask Mrs. Barber to come in and take it with 
them 1 

With this unholy aspiration in her heart, Viola set out 
through the driving rain for the Manor-House. The anxious 
questions which she asked about her mother’s health were put 
aside by Mrs. Sedley : she had never been quite well for the 
last thirty years; never since the birth of her first child; but 
she was no worse now than usual. Perhaps to-day and yester- 
day her head had ached a good deal, but she had nothing to 
complain of. 

“ On the rack,” Viola wondered, “ wmuld she find anything 
to complain of ?” 

Through the rain the familiar outlines of the Manor House 
loomed into sight. As she alighted at the hall door, she 
thought she could realize what a spirit must feel vdio revisited 
the scenes of its earthly life after passing into the next phase 
of existence beyond the grave. 


EXILED. 


153 


After the mid day meal, at which were assembled exactly 
the same group as of yore,— father, mother, Geoffrey, and 
Viola, — the rain cleared, and Geoffrey, not wishing to allow 
his brotherly affection to clash with his hatred of being in- 
doors, proposed that the assembly should adjourn to the gar- 
den. 

Here Viola was greeted by a rapturous company of dogs, 
and behind them came, hopping and flapping excitedly, her 
jackdaw, whose evident delight to see her again was more 
eloquently expressed, as Viola said, than that of her relations. 

“Well, I do call that ungrateful !” cried Geoffrey, “after 
all my fornight’s practice of the enthusiastic welcome ! Geof- 
frey’s embrace had been of the vigorous serio-comic order, by 
which alone he permitted his British emotions to And expres- 
sion. 

“Isay, Viola, I wish you hadn’t gone and got married.” 
the brother confided to her when they were jnarching arm in 
arm along one of the straight walks of the old fimit-garden. 
“Life won’t be worth living here all by oneself!” 

“ I am sorry to leave you; but you can come over and see 
me, of course, whenever you like. And then, you will be very 
soon leaving home. When do you expect to get your appoint- 
ment?” 

“ Oh, Sir Philip is seeing about that for me,” said Geoffrey. 
“Your marriage has its conveniences, Ila.’ 

She winced. 

“I say, what do you think of your husband after five 
months of his society?” the boy asked, so naively, that even 
Viola, whose sense of humour was certainly not keener. than 
the average, burst out layghing. 

“Well, but what do you think of him?” persisted Geoffrey. 

“ I think him very clever, for one thing,” she answered. 

“And what else?” 

“ Very determined.” 

“And ?” 

“ Very handsome.” 

“ Then I suppose you are very fond of him!” 

“One is often fond of people possessing not one of these 
qualities,” returned Viola. “I daresay, in course of time, 
some foolish person may become fond even of you, for in- 
stance— that is, if you cure yourself of the habit of asking 
questions. 

Geoffrey made a grimace. “But, my dear, the subject to 
a brotherly heart is so interesting.” 

She smiled sadly. How this old familiar nonsense made 
her heart ache ! Ah ! if only she could wipe out the memory 
of those awful five months, and take up the thread of her 
life at the point she had left it ! Even her mother could no 
longer pi'otect her against the promptings of her evil nature. 
In Philip’s presence all that was bad and bold and reckless 
came to the surface ; she could not believe as she ought to 


154 


TUE WINO OF AZBAEL. 


believe, she could not feel as she ought to feel ; she could not 
evQwpray as she used to pray. Her life was like some awful 
dream, and her husband the presence from which her whole 
being sought to escape in the frantic horror-stricken helpless- 
ness of a nightmare. 

Never had she felt this helplessness more terribly than she 
felt it to-day amid the scenes of her former life in the old 
home, whence’a decree of eternal banishment had been spoken. 
“ Your duty now is ivith your husband, and I will never let 
you neglect that for my salceA 

The old talismans were useless ; their virtue had gone out 
of them. 

The future must be faced alone and unbefriended. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

A SELECT CIRCLE. 

Unhappily for herself, Yiola was not a person to whom 
one could remain indifferent. Philip, in spite of his exasper- 
ation was still in love with his wife, after his own fashion. 
It was impossible for him to acquiesce in the cold and distant 
relations that she wished to establish between them ; her con- 
duct amazed and maddened him. In all his wide experience 
of life he had never heard or dreamt of such a woman. Her 
character was to him utterly incomprehensible. He could 
neither frighten her nor soften her; threats, insults, sneers 
(and he was not sparing of all these), left her as meek and as 
cold as before. 

If she had been a haughty, rebellious woman, giving him 
insult for insult, sneer for sneer, he might have understood 
it; but she professed the most complete wifely submission, 
obeyed him in every detail, and when he reviled her she 
answered not again. Yet behind all this apparent yielding 
be knew that there lay something he could not touch— the 
real woman, who withdrew hei'self from him, inexorably and 
forever. A stupider man might have been content when he 
had so far succeeded in his object as to make her his wife, but 
Philip knew that this seeming success was after all a humili- 
ating failure ; that she had evaded him — him of aU men in 
the world, despite his utmost efforts !” 

It was this exasperating conviction that made his manner 
towards her— with all its polish— at times absolutely insult- 
ing. Her invariable meekness under extreme provocation 
served rather to increase than to appease him. It left him 
nothing to attack ; he had no handle even for complaint. 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


155 


Accustomed for so long to absolute dominion, he was driven 
almost to frenzy by the consciousness of being quietly held at 
bay by one of the gentlest and most submissive women he 
had ever met. She had none of the usual little ways of 
women : one could manage a woman who had little ways ; 
little fits of temper, and little fits of repentance ; women who 
coaxed and pouted alternately. There was something to work 
upon in all this. But Viola !— Avhen did she lose her temper, 
or repent, or weep, or ask to be forgiven? When did she 

g lead for a new gown, or coax him for a new bonnet? When 
id she condescend to be jealous? Had he not pursued Ara- 
bella with attentions and compliments till he was sick of the 
sight of her and her wrigglings? And what notice had Viola 
taken of his conduct, what remonstrance had she offered? 
His doings seemed to be perfectly indifferent to her, so long as 
he kept out of her sight. 

It was a scarcely credible situation. 

The first few weeks after the return home were very trou- 
bled and wretched. Philip seemed to take a delight in hum- 
bling and humiliating his wife by every means in his power, 
and his power in that direction was unlimited. His conduct 
towards her was of a kind that no woman of her type could 
forgive, even if she tried. 

She knew now the reason of Harry Lancaster’s passionate 
warnings; she knew now why he had said that he would 
rather see her lying dead before him than married to Philip 
Dendraith. 

He was right. 

“ Ah! mother, you will never know what I suffer for you; 
you never shall know, for it would break your heart as it has 
broken mine.” 

The sense of duty, desperately as it had been assailed, in 
this hurricane of horror and disaster still held firm as a rock, 
and still the poor mummied religion which had been given to 
this passionate heart for a guide held up a withered finger of 
exhortation. 

With these motives and these faiths Viola struggled on, 
fighting the desperate fight against herself and her own na- 
ture, which fills the lives of so many women with inward 
storm and wreckage. Her faith now was her sole anchor. 
Without the belief that it was right to suffer without com- 
plaining, it would have been literally impossible for her to 
endure her life for another day. Not long after the return of 
the bride and bridegroom to their home the neighbours began 
to call upon them,— Mr. and Mrs. Evans, with their eldest 
daughter; Mr. and Mrs. Pellett (an absent-minded old student 
and his wife) ; Mrs. and Miss Featherstone, a fashionable 
county lady and her daughter, the latter a great huntress ; Mrs. 
Dixie in magnificent sunset effulgence; and finally Arabella, 
who lived twelve miles away, but who was staying with Lady 


156 


THE WING OF AZUAEL. 


Clevedon, and begged to be driven over to call upon her 
charming niece. 

Arabella made a great many awkward though proper as- 
sumptions about Viola’s supposed state of distraction, if Phil- 
ip left her for a day or two, and her joy at his return. She 
was disposed to talk a little archly about “somebody,” and 
to indulge in gentle raillery on the subject of honeymoons, 
which lasted a good deal longer than one poor month. Viola, 
unhappily, could not extract the cream of the situation and 
enjoy it, such as it was, in spite of its grim satire on her real 
position ; it hurt without amusing her. 

“Whom the gods intend to destroy,” Harry Lancaster once 
remarked, “they send into the world with a sensitive spirit, 
minus the sense of humour. Whom the gods intend to tor- 
ture, but to keep alive for further sport, they endow also with 
a sensitive spirit, but add to it a sense of humour abnormally 
strong.” 

The neighbours discussed the new mistress of Upton Castle 
with perfect freedom, but upon the whole not unfavourably. 

The Evans family were even enthusiastically favourable; 
perhaps because Dick, the family oracle, had pronounced, 
when he met her at Clevedon Castle before her marriage, 
that she was a nice, unaffected sort of girl, and ‘ ‘ very good 
form. ” 

Geoffrey, who was a frequent visitor at his sister’s house, 
used often to hear at second-hand the criticisms of her neigh- 
bours, and sometimes he would report them to her. 

“I say, Ha, my dear,” he announced one day, “ Mrs. Pellett 
thinks that you are sinking into a decline.” 

“She has been comparing notes with Mrs. Barber, then,” 
said Viola, “ that is also her opinion.” 

“ You must have found your way to Mrs. Barber’s heart,” 
observed Philip ; “ it is her highest form of compliment. If 
she loves you, she represents you with one foot in the grave.” 

“A good attitude to be ‘photographed in,” Geoffrey sug- 
gested with extravagant foolishness. “A new idea! we 
could arrange you artistically, with cross-bones, you know, 
and an extensive churchyard for a background.” 

Viola smiled, and drew her hand across her eyes as if to 
erase the heavy lines beneath them. 

Geoffrey wanted to know how she liked her new neigh- 
bours. 

Her judgments were indolently charitable. The only per 
son she actively objected to was Mrs. Pellett, the lady who 
originated the “ decline ” theory. The others were all “very 
pleasant. ” 

“You’ll have to go and call on them, you know,” said 
Geoffrey. Yon would go and get married, and you must 
take the consequences. Does a woman promise to pay calls 
in the marriage-service? Rather rough on you, isn’t it? 
Calling doesn’t seem in your line.” 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


157 


“ That is probably the reason it is given to me to do,” said 
Viola, in all seriousness. “It is a discipline.” 

Philip had gone to town for a fortnight. Viola managed 
to cajole her brother into sharing the discipline with her. 

“ Only two calls to-day,” she said; “and it will be such a 
relief to me !” 

She was a little over-hasty in this last conclusion, as she 
afterwards found to her cost. 

The first call was on Mrs. Pellett, “to get it over,” Viola 
said. That exemplary lady lived in a small red brick house 
on the outskirts of Upton, smothered among trees, and look- 
ing very damp and dark. 

Ushered into a musty drawing-room, where the blinds were 
down, the visitors had an opportunity of inhaling the heavy 
atmosphere, and of surveying the beauties of the room, before 
the owner appeared. The table was in the exact centre, and 
in its own centre it wore, like a weight on its heart, a 
heavy china bowl standing on its head, and supporting (as a 
father-acrobat, upon the soles of his feet, his little son) a sec- 
ond smaller bowl, this one in its normal attitude. 

The glacial seveifities of the marble mantelpiece were sof- 
tened by pastoral groups in pink china— gallant swains, and 
bashful shepherdesses, with dispositions of marvellous sweet- 
ness. Let the world ^rowl and grumble as it might, these 
delightful creatures smiled on untiringly. On the wall beamed 
the portrait of a lady with pale, glossy hair, and a pink face 
smooth as a pebble : small blue eyes and attenuated eyebrows, 
high up out of reach of the eyes, as if they were intended by 
nature to break the interminable expanse of the forehead 
which rose majestically above them. In spite of that fore- 
head, no one would have had the temerity to suggest that 
this lady was a person of intellect. Anything more blandly 
and virtuously feeble than that face, with its thin, nerveless 
lips, would be hard to picture. 

“ I believe she had the front of her head shaved and thrown 
into that forehead,” Geoffrey declared, “and I believe Mrs. 
Pellett follows her example. Hers is just as fine ; its quite 
grand— like looking up at Mount Olympus. ” 

“O Geoffrey!” 

“ It ought to look well in a sunset, but wants ruggedness. 
I wonder ” 

Mrs. Pellett, who came in at this juncture, was a good deal 
like the lady with the Olympian brow, whose portrait, she 
said, represented her dear mother. The daughter appeared 
to have more force of character than her pale, pink parent, 
though she assured the visitors, with pardonable pride, that 
she could not travel alone for however short a distance, and 
never left home without her husband. 

When Viola saw that kindly, but absent-minded old hus- 
band, she wondered how his presence could inspire any sense 
of security. He might have seen his wife run over by the 


158 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


slowest of waggons, and never have awakened to the melan- 
choly fact till ^1 was over. 

He spent his days buried among his books, whence he 
emerged with eyes still turned inwards and an unconquer- 
able tendency to answer the frivolities of visitors and of his 
own family entirely at random. 

“My dear, this is Mrs. Philip Dendraith,” explained Mrs. 
Pellett for the second time, in a louder tone, as her husband, 
though extremely polite and cordial, in a blind-fold sort of 
fashion, was evidently settling into a contented state of ig- 
norance as to the name and condition of his guests. 

“Yes, my dear, so you said — so you said. It is strange,” 
turning to Geoffrey, “ that one can hve for years in a place 
and yet remain quite ignorant of one’s neighbours. Mr. 
Philip Dendraith is a name upon everybody’s lips, and yet 
never before have I had the pleasure of meeting him.” 

Geoffrey’s face was a study. 

“My dear, you make a mistake,” began his wife; “ this is 
not Mr. Dendraith, it is ” 

But the old man was at that moment asking Viola if she 
liked the neighbourhood, whether her father and mother 
were in good health, and how were all her sisters, 

'^Brothers, dear,” remonstrated Mrs. Pellett. 

“And brothers,” added her husband, blandly. “ Your hus- 
band looks younger than I expected.” 

‘ ‘ Charles F 

“Well, my dear, I looked for some one rather more ma- 
ture— not quite so boyish.” 

“No, I don’t look my age, I know,” the audacious Geoffrey 
broke in, seeing Mrs. Pellett had given up her husband in 
despair and turned to Viola. “My wife often complains 
about it, but I tell her it’s a fault that will mend.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the old scholar, nodding his head, “quite 
soon enough, quite soon enough. Very interesting old place, 
that of yours— fine example of later Norman work; but I 
fear the sea is fast undermining it. My friend Foster there 
tells me that the water is working its way under the Keep, 
and that he doesn’t think it will last for many years longer.” 

Geoffrey sadly shook his head. 

“ I fear it is too true,” he said. “I thought of building a 
l^reakwater to receive the brunt of the battle just at the point, 
but I am told that the plan is not feasible. The tide runs too 
strong.” 

“A sad pity,” said Mr. Pellett in a musing tone; “we are 
losing aU our fine old monuments, between the ferocity of 
the elements and the ferocity of Vandalic man. But I must 
not get upon this subject, it is a sore point with me.” 

“Ah! then we shall sympathise,” cried the unprincipled 
youth, with much feeling. “ I too wage deadly war against 
the destroyers of history, the devourers of the Past.” 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


159 


Upon this, Mr. Pellett, all unsuspicious, took the serpent 
into liis bosom. 

“ Geolfrey ! O Geoffrey !” cried Viola as soon as they "Arere 
outside the door. 

“Yes, yes! I know!’’ said the youth with a frown and a 
blush, ‘ ‘ let’s say no more about it !” 

“But how could you? It was really too bad. I don’t 
know what I was saying to Mrs. Pellett, I quite lost my head 
in my dismay at your behaviour. What possessed you ?” 

“Don’t know, I’m sure!’’ said Geoffrey, scratching his 
head uncomfortably. “ Thought it would be a lark — once in 
the mess, couldn’t back out— worst of it is Mr. Pellett asked 
me to go and see him— dashed if I know what name to go 
under.” 

“ Your own, of course,” said Viola, rather severely. 

He promised to behave like an archangel during the call at 
the Rectory, and he followed his sister, hat in hand, into the 
presence of the Evans family, with an expression that would 
have done credit to St. Sebastian. 

Mrs. Evans was a tall indefinite sort of woman, in non- 
descript attire ; each year of her busy, careful, rather wear- 
ing life had left its stamp upon her, not so much in signs of 
age, as in a certain dim and colourless quality often to be ob- 
served among women who have passed thbir whole lives in a 
small country village. Married very young, she had missed 
her girlhood altogether, and began to taste the petty troubles 
of a woman’s life before she had had time to realise any of 
its possibilities. 

Two and two generally make four. Mrs. Evans at fifty 
was as narrow and dim and petty in thought as she was 
patient and irreproachable in action. Her opinions had not 
grown ; they had settled upon her like dust from the sur- 
rounding atmosphere. A sort of dull tragedy (though her 
neighbours knew it not) was bein^ acted before their eyes in 
the picturesque old Rectory with its red-tiled roof and warm 
lichen-covered walls. 

Never from year’s end to year’s end did Mrs. Evans know 
what it meant to feel well. Head-ache, back-ache, weakness, 
weariness, and a thousand nameless oppressions were her 
constant and merciless companions. Her husband, though 
he acknowledged in words that his wife “enjoyed weak 
health,” was as blandly ignorant of the actual meaning of 
those words as though he had spoken in an unknown tongue. 

It was in his service that she had surrendered so much, 
and he did not even know it! She was excellent, admirable, 
but she was quite without charm. Her fellow-creatures, at 
whose behest she had thus despoiled herself, now turned 
away from their obedient servant, rewarding her obedience 
with neglect, veiled under words of cold approbation. 

Society has no rewards for the faithful ; only curses and 
stoning for the heretics. 


160 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


The daughters of the Eectory were pleasant, large-limbed, 
fresh-looking girls, apparently unlimited in number, and 
somewhat wanting in variety. 

Dorothy, the wild, auburn-haired youngest daughter, was 
the only one of the family who did not give promise of fol- 
lowing in her mother’s footsteps. She tore more frocks in 
one summer than any of her sisters had torn in their lives ; 
she resented gloves, and would not keep her hair tidy. 
Sometimes she was disobedient, even when her father had 
commanded, and finally (most ominous sign of all of a law- 
less disposition) she hated and loathed the admirable Mrs. 
Pellett with all the force of her young soul. To hate Mrs. 
Pellett was to hate law and order, to hate respectability, to 
hate Virtue personified. 

According to Dorothy, it was also to hate primness, pro- 
priety, and d underheaded ness, not to mention uglj^ caps and 
horrible Sunday bonnets, and all the subtle forms of ugliness 
which a woman of her type can collect around her. 

During the call Geoffrey sat uttering meek monosyllables 
and looking like a chorister. Mrs. Evans remai-ked after 
he was gone what a very beautiful expression that young 
man had, and one of the daughters feared he was going to die 
young. 

Dorothy regarded him with little interest, but she was full 
of wild enthusiasm about Viola. 

She was not a bit like a married lady, Dorothy thought. 
She had no little airs of importance, no accustomed little 
phrases, no proper sentiments. The girl’s heart went out to 
her straightway. What unusual quality was there in her 
voice that made her seem miles apart from every one around 
her ? 

There is no feeling more intense and romantic in its own 
way, than the devotion of a girl to a woman a little older and 
more experienced than hersmf. No lover ever admired more 
enthusiastically, or worshipped more devoutly. 

Dorothy had already entered upon the first stage of such 
an experience. She begged to be taken to call at Upton Cas- 
tle, much to the surprise of her brethren, for the scapegrace 
of the family would usually undergo any penance rather 
than submit to tliis vexatious social usage. When Viola 
came to the Rectory Dorothy hung upon her words, and treas- 
ured her every glance. 

As for Geoffrey, he established himself on almost brotherly 
terms with the whole family , and the family quickly had to 
reconsider their views about him in the capacity of chorister 
and the probability of his coming to an early grave. 

“He is one of those people who live to be a discipline to 
their friends, to an aggravating old age,” said Dick. 

Dick was the member of the family with whom Viola found 
that she had most in common. He began, after a time, to 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


161 


confide his hopes and his troubles to her, and to turn to her 
for sympathy. The friendship that sprang up between them 
was the one wholesome and natural element in her hfe. 

Chilled, stunted as her nature had been, it began now to 
put forth pale little shoots towards the light, a piece of au- 
dacity which society in alarm set to work at once to punish 
and to check. Mrs. Pellett, to do her justice, had been the 
firet to notice the growing intimacy between Dick and Viola, 
and she had thought it her duty (never had human being so 
many and such various duties as Mrs. Pellett !) to give a hint 
to the rector’s wife on the subject. 

“Mr. Dendraith is a good deal away,” said Mrs. Pellett, 
“and although I am sure your son is all that he should be, and 
dear Mrs. Dendraith is a— ahem a most highly principled 
young woman, it does not do to set people talking. There is 
nothing more unpleasant.” 

And so on. 

Thus it happened that on Saturday afternoons, when Dick 
came to the Rectory from his work in town, Viola was seldom 
or never there. 

Mrs. Evans would have been wiser to have let matters 
alone, for Dick now used often to walk over to Upton Castle 
on Sunday afternoons; and as Philip was seldom in, Viola and 
her visitor would take a walk by themselves, as if Mrs. Pel- 
lett had never been born. They used sometimes to spend a 
quiet hour in the ruins, enjoying the sea air and the wonder- 
ful changes in the lines of ocean and sky which could be so 
well seen from this romantic spot. 

Always they would knock at Caleb Foster’s door in the old 
keep, to enquire for his well-being, and to lure him from his 
stronghold for a talk. Mrs. Pellett, however, soon found out 
what was going on. 

“My dear,” she said, on one memorable occasion when she 
had interrupted Dick in some confidence about a love affair, 
“ my dear, excuse the frankness of a sincere well-wisher, but 
don’t you think it would be wise to give that young man a 
hint not to come here quite so often?” 

“ Not so often?” repeated Viola, in a dazed manner. 

Mrs. Pellett took her hand. 

“You are inexperienced, dear Mrs. Dendraith; you don’t 
know how careful one ought to be not to give rise to talk.” 

Viola gazed at her visitor in stony silence. 

“So very little will do it,” pursued the monitress, sooth- 
ingly. 

“ So it appears !” 

“ Of course I say this out of a friendly desire for your wel- 
fare. ” 

“You are very good !” 

“ I daresay,” pursued the lady, with delicate tact, “ I dare- 
say you are glad to welcome even unsuitable visitors to your 
house because you lead rather a lonely life and no doubt feel 


162 


TUE WING OF AZRAEL. 


dull now and then ; but you know we must not allow our 
little trials to turn us from the strict path of duty and pru- 
dence — I am sure you agree with me.” 

Viola bowed. 

“ The true way to avoid being dull is to keep oneself always 
occupied,” continued Mrs. Pellett; “now, for example, lam 
busy from morning till night, and I don’t know what it is to 
be dull.” 

“No!” said Viola. 

“ It is right that we should all do some work, whatever be 
our station.” 

“ I think most people would be glad to work, if only they 
do the work they can do best.” 

“Ah ! but it is not for us to choose,''' said Mrs. Pellett; “ we 
have to take what is appointed for us, and simply do our 
duty.” 

Viola followed an audacious impulse. 

“What is duty?” she enquired. 

Mrs. Pellett looked startled and uneasy. Wherein lay the 
advantage of platitude if one was to be mentally knocked 
about in this manner? 

“Our duty,” said the lady, majestically, “is the — well, in 
fact, the duty that has been given to us to perform by a 
Higher Power.” 

Viola gazed at her in silence. 

“Of course,” pursued Mrs. Pellett, waving aside the sub- 
ject as now worked out, “ of course, dear Mrs. Dendraith, we 
all feel that your life at present is a little quiet and dull, — 
your husband being so much away,— but some day we hope 
that there will be quite a different state of things. No doubt 
we shall hear the patter of little feet about the house ; and 
then there will be no time to be dull, will there?” 

Mrs. Fellett’s manner was archly encouraging. 

Viola seemed turned to stone. She neither moved nor 
spoke. She only looked at her visitor with an expression of 
mingled loathing and defiance which must have pierced any 
shell of self-complacency less adamantine than Mrs. Pellett’s. 
Viola knew what was expected of her; a pleased embarrass- 
ment at the mention of that which she was taught in the 
same breath to regard as the most blessed and desirable of 
contingencies. Mrs. Pellett’s manner and expression excited 
in her a sickening fury, and sent the waves of colour surg- 
ing to her cheeks, so that she had the misery of knowing 
herself to be apparently responding with the utmost propriety 
exactly as custom required. The painful flush deepened, and 
spread over neck and brow, while Mrs, Pellett smiled ap- 
provingly, and finally made some remark that filled the cup 
of disgust to overflowing. 

Like frantic prisoners, shaking their prison -bars, the words 
came clambering for egress to the closely set lips. “You 
ai’e a fool, you are an idiot, you are intolerable^ 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


163 


‘‘Well, my dear,” said the unconscious Mrs. Pellett, smil- 
ing, “we won’t anticipate these joys if you would rather 
not ” 

Viola drew a sharp breath. 

“ But I thought you wouldn’t mind it with me, you know — 
and of course it would be such a happiness and a comfort to 
you all— you must pray, my dear. Where there is a property, 
it is so especially desirable. ” 

Still no answer. How could she speak to such a woman 
without making a more than ever detestable hotch-potch of 
misunderstanding? 

Viola had not philosophy enough to thrust aside her dis- 
gust and forget the incident Mrs. Pellett’s plain, pompous 
face, with its look of irreproachable vacuity, haunted her 
long afterwards. 

But Mrs. Pellett was not the only offender, nor was hers 
the only kind of offence. Viola had to learn that as a mar- 
ried woman she was expected to listen with amusement to 
anecdotes and allusions which were considered sullying to 
the innocence of a girl. She sickened with anger and misery, 
and dreaded inexpressibly to meet the neighbours, because 
among them— as she considered — she was always liable to in- 
sult. Marriage seemed to her nothing less than an initiation 
into things base and unlovely, infringing the dignity of 
womanhood. 

The blackness of her solitude made these wounded feelings 
doubly hard to bear, and the sense of humiliation became so 
terrible, that even suicide — which her mother had taught her 
to place on the same level as murder — grew less heinous in 
her imagination, as the impulse to fling away the horrors and 
the indignities of life became more and more frantically im- 
portunate. 

Not long after Mrs. Pellett’s warning on the subject of Dick 
Evans, Philip happened to find him with Viola in the ruins. 
The look of suffering had gone, for the time, from her eyes, 
for Dick was talking to her about the sea, and its silent cease- 
less work of building and destruction ; about the crumbling 
of the land along the coast, and the ei'ection during long cen- 
turies of great beds of chalk, formed from the shells of 
myriad of tiny creatures, — little throbs of momentary sensa- 
tion in the bosom of the ages. 

The sea-breeze was blowing up fresh and blue ; the clouds 
overhead thronged across the pale sky as if inspired by some 
joyous passion. 

Philip met Dick Evans with seeming pleasure, and the 
three stood talking together for a few minutes. 

Presently Dick went off to speak to Caleb Foster, who was 
at the door of the keep, sharpening a carpenter’s axe upon a 
grindstone, and then Philip turned to his wife. 

“ My dear,” he said, “do you know that this is the third 
time this week that Dick Evans has been here?” 


164 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


“Yes,” said Viola. 

“Though the very last man in the world to be jealous, I 
am also the last man in the world to allow my wife to be 
talked about. You will be good enough in future not to go 
out walking with Dick Evans. Of course he can call when 
he likes, but there must be nothing more.” 

“Ah! I enjoyed those walks,” said Viola in a low voice, 
almost as if she were speaking to herself. 

Her husband gave a slight amused smile, — the remark 
seemed to him so naif. 

“You can get one of his sisters to go with you; that will 
do just as well, and better, from a social point of view.” 

An expression of utter despair came into her eyes, but she 
said nothing. Philip looked at her fixedly, and his lips gave 
a curious twist as he turned away with a muttered remark 
that lie was going to walk over to Upton Court and would 
not be back to luncheon. 

Dick presently returned with Caleb Foster, who proceeded 
to give an instructive dissertation upon ontology, with copi- 
ous illustrations from Kant and Hegel, till the solid earth 
seemed to Viola to swim from beneath their feet, the wind 
and sea and the steep white cliffs to grow alike imponderable. 
Dick’s robust animal consciousness and his absence of meta- 
physical instinct finally roused him to violent rebellion. 

“In the name of common-sense, my dear Foster ” 

Caleb gave a sigh. “Common-sense!” he cried dejectedly; 
“if you are going to appeal to common-sense, sir, I have 
nothing more to say; we must at once drop the chain of 
logic.” He opened his thin fingers, as if actually letting go 
that ponderous object. 

“But I deny that the two things are incompatible,” object- 
ed Dick. The other shrugged his shoulders. 

“Common-sense may be a crude sort of wisdom; but logi- 
cal it is not, or I think this globe of ours would be rather less 
distracted than we find it.” 

“ Saved by a syllogism !” observed Dick musingly. 

Caleb shortly after this returned to his work, and then Dick 
proposed to Viola that they should go for a walk. 

“I want to show you those Saxon barrows upon the Downs 
that I spoke to you about. You said you would like to see 
them.” 

Viola coloured. Philip had forbidden her to go again for 
walks with Dick. Her only strong pleasure, her one source 
of fresh and wholesome ideas, was to be given up ; and at the 
thought an iinpulse of rebellion sprang up within her, fierce 
and desperate. 

“ Do they all want to drive me mad or wicked?” 

“Will you come,” asked Dick casually, expecting her as- 
sent as a matter of course. 

“ Yes, I will come!” she said, with set lips. But all pleas- 
ure in Dick’s society had ceased. The sense of wrong-doing 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 165 

stalked like a spectre beside her, dogging her footsteps, go 
where she might. 

In vain the sweet wind blustered round her, in vain the 
untamed monster at the clitf’s foot flung its vast bulk upon 
the complaining stones, muttering the secrets of the ages. A 
little fretting chain, holding her to the small and local ele- 
ments of her life, pinioned her joyous impulses, and sounded 
its familiar “ chink, chink,” in her ears. 

“You seem tired,” said the young man, checking his im- 
petuous speed. 

Had she answered as Nature dictated, she would have 
brought dismay into his manly bosom by bursting into tears. 
The wildness of the scene, the appeal of the lark’s song over- 
head, and of the old. old song of the sea were almost more 
than she could bear. She felt like an outcast from all these 
elemental things, an exile from the world of reality and joy. 

But though her heart spoke strongly, her training was loud- 
voiced also. Habit triumphed over impulse. 

“I am a little tired,” she said; “the wind is pushing hard 
against us.” 

“Let us rest then,” Dick proposed; “the wind has long ago 
sw^t up all moisture; we can safely sit upon the grass;” and 
he flun^ himself at full length on the slope, while Viola, tired 
rather m mind than in body, sank down wearily beside him. 

Her big retriever, Triton, like an embodied Eapture, was 
racing across the Downs. Viola called to him in her sweet 
vibrating voice, but he did not hear till Dick’s shout joined 
issue with the gale. Then the dog turned, and came tearing 
hack, his brown body scorning the earth in its passage. He 
bounded up, happy and affectionate, to his mistress. “If I 
must part with every other friend, at least I shall always 
have you till you die,’’ she said with a pathetic little caress. 
“ But you will desert me, and go away into the Silent Land, 
and then ” 

“You will get another Triton,” said Dick, with a good- 
natured laugh. 

“But these beautiful brown eyes will not be forgotten. 
Where can you find a human spirit like this?” 

“ You are always a little hard on us poor humans,” said 
Dick; “after all, most of us mean well enough, though per- 
haps we make rather a mess of the doing.” 

“In men and women,” Viola returned. “I miss the gen- 
erous, faithful soul of a creature like this. If I could meet 
any one — man, woman, or child — one half as noble, I would 
set him on a pedestal and worship him to my life’s end.” 

“ Not a bit of it,” said Dick, laughing; “you would long for 
a little amiable human weakness m your deity, and haul him 
down again,— or worse stiU, poor fellow, leave him there in 
cold and solitary glory, like another Simon Stylites.” 

Viola shook her head. 


166 


TEE WING OF AZBAEL. 


“ Look at these eyes. Where can you find human eyes as 
beautiful?” 

“ Well, I know, at any rate, one man and one woman who 
surpass old Triton in that point ; and curiously enough, they 
possess just those qualities that you admire so much in him!” 

“ Do I know the people?” 

“You know one of them—Harry Lancaster.” 

“Oh I” said Viola, abruptly. 

“The other is his friend Mrs. Lincoln. No doubt you have 
heard of her, as she has taken that little house belonging to 
your father-in-law, on the coast— what is it called? Fir 
Lodge, or Fir Dell, or something of that sort.” 

“Mr Dell,” said Viola. “Yes, I know about her!” 

“People here won’t call upon her because she is separated 
from her husband ; but I must say she seems to me a very 
refined, lady-like sort of woman, and I know Harry Lancas- 
ter thinks her little short of an angel ; in fact, I sometimes 
fancy he is a little bit in love with her.” 

“ But — but she is married !” said Viola. 

Dick smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “He is just the 
sort of fellow to cherish a ^ grande passion' for the unattaina- 
ble.” 

Viola threw her arms round her dog’s neck, and laid her 
cheek against his head, so that her face was turned from her 
companion. “ I think I am rested now,” she said presently; 
“ shall we go on?” 

The pause seemed to have imbued her with amazing 
strength, for her pace now rivalled Triton’s, and Dick laugh- 
ingly asked her if she were training for a race. 

“Am I walking fast?” she enquired abruptly, slackening 
speed. On sea and sky, on the grass at her feet, a face with 
pleading eyes was gazing at her sorrowfully. 

“You look pale,” said Dick, in his kind, chivalrous way ; 
“ have I taken you too far?” 

“No, no.” 

“ It seems to me you might take the prize in a two-mile 
race across-country.” 

They paced on in silence for some moments; then Dick 
said, “You have never seen Mrs. Lincoln, I suppose?” 

“Never!” 

“She is a very curious woman— dreadfully clever, but I 
rather like her. As for her opinions— I fear they would shock 
you, Mrs. Dendraith.” 

“ Does she dissent from the Church?” 

Dick stopped, and broke into a loud shout of laughter. 
‘ ‘ Mrs, Lincoln cares as much about the Church as she cares 
about the Upton ladies. There are rumors afloat that she is 
a follower of Zoroaster, or a Buddhist.” 

Viola looked aghast. 

“And that she worships those very ugly little figures that 


A SELECT CmOLE. 


167 


you see in Oriental shops. They say she buys them by the 
dozen.”. 

“ Impossible!” 

“It is also said,” Dick pursued, “that she is building her- 
self a little temple off her drawing-room, like a conservatory, 
and that she means to found a Buddhist monastic system, 
and make Harry Lancaster high-priest!” 

“ And he admires such a woman!” 

“ You would forgive him if you saw her!” 

“ Never!” said Viola. 

Dick held out his hand to help her up the last few feet of 
the barrow which stood beside two or three other hillocks on 
the highest point of the downs, commanding a view of the 
usual incredible number of counties. 

Dick then began to discourse upon the probable history of 
tliese old relics of our forefathers, upon the different races 
that had peopled Britain, with round heads, long heads, or 
coffin-shaped heads, each race having buried its dead in bar- 
rows of distinctive form, so that these burial-places told part 
of itheir story to the archaeologist at the first glance. Dick 
went on to relate some legends, full of the wild poetry of 
northern sea-girt, melancholy lands, haunted by mist and 
storm. 

Viola leant back, and listened dreamily. With her head 
pillowed upon the soft grass, she could watch the clouds drift- 
ing, and melting, and streaming, wind-intoxicated, across the 
heavens; scarcely was the earth visible at all. She grew con- 
scious of a brilliant circle of blue hills and a shimmer of uni- 
versal light. The sense of trouble faded away. Fate had 
granted her a moment’s amnesty. 

Viola heaved a long, deep sigh. The vividness of her per- 
sonality was dimmed, its edges lost their sharpness, and her 
consciousness seemed to spread out and extend into the out- 
lying world of air and sunshine, and the limitless ether that 
lay above. 

The voice of the story-teller ceased, and the windy silence 
of the downs closed softly round and about. Dick, after a 
few minutes, looked at his companion. “Are you asleep?” 

“ Yes, and dreaming.” 

She did not move, but lay with closed eyes, peacefully. 

“May I know your dream?” 

“ It was of wind and waves - of a world where there is no 
romance, and happiness, and rest; where—” Viola suddenly 
raised her head and sat upright, the peace all gone from her 
face— “ and where there are no Mrs. Pelletts!” 

Dick laughed. 

“ Why, Mrs. Dendraith, you are not so good, after all, as 
T tliough you ! Mrs. Lincoln might rebel against Mrs. Pellett, 
but and apropos of that, I fear we shall have to be 
going. I see we have been out three hours! Kemember, you 


168 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


have public opinion to consider, a position to keep up, and 
Mrs. Pellett to confront !” 

“ If I committed a murder,” exclaimed Viola, as she si)rang 
to her feet, “ I should not think it necessary to apologise to 
Mrs. Pellett!” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND. 

As Philip was not home to luncheon on that day of iniquity, 
he did not discover his wife’s act of insubordination till she 
took it upon herself to inform him. Though very angry at 
the moment of confession, he was disarmed by ner frank- 
ness. 

“Don’t let this happen again, however,” he said. “I sel- 
dom lay commands upon you, but when I do, I mean them to 
be obeyed.” 

The walks thenceforth were given up, and Dick had now to 
content himself with paying formal calls at Upton Castle, 
when he found Viola nervous and constrained, looking paler 
and more lifeless each time he came. 

“ I begin to half believe in Mrs. Pellett’s theory about ‘the 
decline,”’ he said anxiously to his mother, who shook her 
head and feared that the poor young thing had not long to 
live. 

On one occasion Viola called at the Rectory immediately 
after Mrs. Pellett’s departure, and found her devoted admirer, 
Dorothy, fuming with indignation. It seemed that Mrs. 
Pellett, with her usual enlarged views about duty, had just 
returned from an incursion upon the Manor House, where she 
had been kindly mentioning to Mrs. Sedley what she, and 
many others at Upton, thought about dear Viola’s sad ap- 
pearance. 

The Bulwark (as Harry Lancaster used to call her) had 
dropped in on her way back to explain to her friends at the 
Rectory how much trouble she had been taking in the cause 
of virtue. Dorothy stamped her foot. 

“I was burning to throw an antimacassar at her head!” 
exclaimed that impulsive young person. “The way she sat 
there, swelling with importance and propriety! Ugh! I wish 
she had burst like the frog in the fable — and then we should 
have heard no more about her!” 

“Oh, consummation devoutly to be wished!” cried Dick. 
“ Fancy having the trouble to go all that way first to see Mrs. 
Sedley and frighten her out of her wits— the old idiot!” 


GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND. 


169 


This last epithet appeared so pointedly to apply to Mrs. 
Sedley, that Dorothy stammered and explained. “ I suppose 
I ought to be grateful to Mrs. Pellett,” said Viola, “ but I am 
not : I hate Mrs. Pellett !” 

Dorothy stared for a moment, and then broke out into 
laughter and embraces. 

“Hurray!” she called out at the top of her voice. “I 
thought you couldn’t hate any one !” 

Viola gave a little “ Oh” that was very expressive. 

“ Can you hate with all your mind, and with all your soul, 
and with all yuur heart ?” inquired Dorothy. 

“1 fear I can.” 

“So much the better,” said Dorothy after an astonished 
pause; “people who can love can always hr'r.” 

“ But they oughtn’t to!” said Viola. 

Theologically Dorothy agreed, but humanly she didn’t see 
it. 

“ If people are nasty,” she argued, “they were made to be 
hated.” 

Viola rather demurred at this; but Doroll y urged ^hat (for 
instance) sheep and cattle, being good to eai, are meant by a 
considerate Providence to be eaten (her father had explained 
that in his sermon last Sunday) : therefore, by analogy, peo- 
ple who are suitable for being hated are meant to be hated. 
No one could love a black-beetle, and no one could love Mrs. 
Pellett (except her husband). Dorothy, in an awed whisper, 
even went so far as to say that she didn’t think God himself 
could love Mrs. Pellett ! 

The girl’s expressions of devotion to Viola were as enegetic 
as her denouncement of hex hete noire. 

“I do love you sol there is nothing in the world that I 
wouldn’t do for you. I wish you would try me.” 

“ Supposing I did something very wicked ” 

“You couldn’t!” cried Dorothy. 

“ But suppose it for a moment.” 

“ Still I should love you, and stick to you through thick 
and thin. It is impossible for you to be you and for me not 
to love you.” 

“ Then I am not quite alone in the world !” said Viola. 

“Alone in the world! Why, every one that knows you 
thinks you are an angel. Dick, for instance,— oh! he loves, 
you so ! Do you love Dick ?” 

“Almost,” said Viola : and Dorothy thenceforth went about 
imparting the interesting information that Dick and Viola 
loved each other to distraction. 

Mrs. Pellett’s interposition (interference, Dorothy called it) 
was, of course, effectual in rousing Mrs. Sedley’s fears. Her 
daughter found it very difficult to lull her suspicions that 
something was wrong, however careful she might be to seem 
in good health and spirits. 


170 


THE WING OF AZUAEL. 


“ I assure you I am quite well,” Viola used to say again and 
again, but her looks belied her words. 

Mrs. Barber’s compliments fell thick and fast. The two 
never met, but the housekeeper would exclaim in sepulchral 
tones: “Well, M’am, you do look ill-disposed, that you do!” 

Though Dorothy’s assertion that every one in Upton 
thought Viola an angel was not quite accurate, her quiet, un- 
assuming manner and gentle expression had partly disarmed 
the criticism of the village, severely just. 

“The present topic of conversation here,” Adrienne Lan- 
caster wrote to her brother, who was now with his regiment 
in Ireland, “is Mrs. Philip Dendraith. I feel sure there is 
something in her a little out of the ordinary. I am determined 
toknovv’her better; it will not be difficult, as she is so often at 
the Eectory. I doubt if she is quite happy ; if she is not, it is 
probably her own fault : some people lack the right temper- 
ament tor happiness. Perhaps you will say that she lacks 
the right husband; but I fancy happiness is a thing which a 
husband can neither give nor take away.” 

Adrienne carried out her intention of becoming more inti- 
mate with Mrs. Dendraith, but the manner in which the 
friendship was cemented differed materially from her own 
forecasts. 

Matters had been going rather slowlj^ for Viola’s reserve 
seemed invincible, when something happened which shook 
things out of their course. 

“&nce my last letter, dear Harry,” wrote Adnenne, “a 
most astonishing event has happened: I have had apro 2 DOsal! 
And from whom do you think, of all people in the world ? 
Prom — I wish I could see your face when you read this 
— from Bob Hunter 1 Think of it 1 Bob with all his jokes and 
his acres at my feet ! Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you, but it 
was too comic an episode to keep to myself. Augusta says it 
would scarcely be Christian.” 

Bob Hunter was a wealthy young man, with a property at 
about eight miles from Upton. Most people said he was mad ; 
a few said he was clever, perhaps because he had attained so 
much celebrity as a skilful baffler of designing mothers. 
These doomed ones he so overwhelmed with quips and quirks 
and mad sayings, so confused with and interlaced with pun, 
meaning hooked into meaning, that they lost all hope and 
presence of mind. 

At one of the Eectory tennis parties Viola found her men- 
tal horizon enlarged by an introduction to this incredibly 
eccentric creature. There is nothing to equal an abnormal 
human being for putting to rout one’s narrow preconceptions. 
Bob was a lank and weedy yoimg man, with a long pale ugly 
face, colourless hair and eyelashes. Life to him was one long 
tarco. Viola felt as if she had come in contact with a being 
from another sphere. She had an opportunity of watching 
him “confounding the knavish tricks” of Mrs. Fcatherstone, 


GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND, 


171 


a county lady with a hunting daughter to marry, both veter- 
ans retiring from the field utterly routed and crestfallen. 

“She that captures Bob Hunter,” that agile person re- 
marked after a little caper of jubilation on the tennis-court, 
“must be swifter than Atalanta.” 

“ Ah ! Mr. Hunter,” said Adrienne, “ if some aspirant were 
only wise enough to avoid pursuing you, you would come and 
tarn 'ly lay yourself down at her feet!” 

Bob looked at her gravely, pirouetted slightly according to 
his custom, and danced oft to the other end of the lawn. 

Later in the afternoon Adrienne and Viola were strolling 
together in a retired part of the garden. Adrienne had been 
trying to draw Viola out, and Viola was showing a perverse 
inclination to give her new acquaintance the benefit of her 
ideas about the difference between the temperature of to-day 
and the temperature of the day before yesterday. 

They were not too much engrossed in their meteorological 
discussion to become aware of the approach of Bob Hunter. 
He came forward, dancing in little triplets, and hailing the two 
ladies as they established themselves on a rustic seat at the 
end of the path, with an appropriate quotation from the poets. 

This was all in his usual manner and caused Adrienne no 
surprise, but what followed fairly took her breath away, and 
made Viola grow hot and cold from sheer amazement. 

“VMse and lovely one,” said Bob, addressing Adrienne, 
“your words are full of the wisdom of the Egyptians! She 
that pursueth not arriveth at the goal ; she that hunteth is 
taken in the snare of the fowler, and the birds of the air laugh 
her to scorn. Julia Featherstone, that accursed damsel, shall 
be humbled ; Adrienne Lancaster, because that she hath passed 
by on the other side, verily she shall be exalted. Not she, but 
her adorer, taketh the lowest place. Even according to his 
word he layeth himself (irrespective of a clay soil) at her feet.” 

And before a word could be uttered, Bob Hunter was sprawl- 
ing at full length on the ground. 

“Mr. Hunter, for Heaven’s sake, get up!” exclaimed Adri- 
enne. “ You are really too ridiculous!” 

“Nay, cruel one, but I love you,” remarked Bob in an ex- 
planatory manner. (No, please don’t go, Mrs. Dendraith, I 
prefer to have an umpire on these occasions.) Adrienne, at 
your feet I lay myself and all that I possess. Will you have 
me?” 

“Do get up, Mr. Hunter!” 

“ Give me your hand, then 1” 

“Suppose some of the tennis players were to come and see 
vou in this ridiculous attitude !” 

“I thought it was graceful,” said Bob. “O you who 
abound in grace, yet have no grace for me, I will arise and go 
to my Featherstone 1” 

“ Pray, do 1” 

“What! a woman, and not jealous!” He sprang ardently 


172 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


to his feet. “ Still more am I yours, still more must I worship 
ihis i-are and charming bird !” He began to skip about and 
execute elaborate steps, talking all the time, and showering 
puns, quotations, allusions upon his astonished audience. 

He kissed Adrienne’s hand, he called her “adamantine,” 
he became like Irving in Hamlet. 

“ Heavens !” exclaimed Adrienne, “ was there, ever such a 
proposal before in history?” 

By this time she was laughing helplesslj^, and the more she 
laughed the more extravagantly Bob Hunter behaved. Yet 
he managed to make her understand that he meant his pro- 
posal seriously, and intended to persevere with his eccentric 
suit till she gave in. 

“ Of course it is a ‘ splendid chance ’ for me,” said Adrienne 
rather bitterly, when her wocer had, at last, consented to 
pirouette back to the tennis-ground; “Miss Featherstone 
and her mother have been angling for him for years, and 
Miss Featherstone has a dozen ‘ chances ’ (as they are flatter- 
ingly called) to my — none! Mother would be wild if she 
knew I had refused him!— and all my counsellors, male and 
female, would hold up hands of dismay at my folly. I 
wonder whether they are right or I. If I don’t marry, I 
shall live on in this dead, foolish, gossiping little village, 
trying to make two ends meet, and talking empty nonsense 
with my neighbours ! I have no place in life, no interest; my 
time is swallowed up in a mere struggle with petty household 
details, a struggle to keep up appearances and live as becomes 
‘our station.’ My mother’s whole existence has become ab- 
sorbed in that effort, and mine too ! If I married ” 

She paused and sighed. 

“If I married, I suppose details of another kind would 
take up my time ; I should have to gossip and talk nonsense, 
perhaps, on a larger scale, and then ” 

“And then you would have to learn to smile when people 
insulted you, ’’"Viola put in, “and to smile again when they 
took you by the arm and whispered loathsome things in your 
ear, and again to smile when — ’’her voice broke — “when 
you realised that you had given up all right to resent what 
they said, for in accepting your position, you had accepted 
these things, and as many more — this side of madness— as 
might happen to offer themselves.” 

Viola was almost breathless when she stopped speaking. 

“Mrs. Dendrith!” exclaimed Adrienne. 

“Miss Lancaster!” said Viola, and the two women stood 
facing one another in the pathway. 

“I don’t think you take things in quite the right spirit,” 
observed Adrienne at length, her theories getting the better 
of a first sympathetic impulse; “a woman can make marriage 
into a Holy of holies. Think how sacred an office it may be; 
how a woman may serve and minister, and make her life one 
long, lovely self-sacrifice.” 


GUIBE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND. 173 

Viola was shivering from head to foot, so that she could not 
answer. 

‘ ‘ Believe me, there is no position in which opportunities for 
heroism do not exist, but the position of wife and mother has 
always been, and surely always will be, the best, noblest, and 
holiest that a woman can fill.” 

Viola shuddered. ‘‘I am very wicked, I know,” she said. 
“ I can’t be patient under insult, and to be married seems to 
lay one open to insult and to rob one of the very right to re- 
sent it.” 

“I don’t understand,” cried Adrienne. “I daresay people 
are vulgar and impertinent, but what does that matter after 
all?” 

Viola turned away. She could not speak of it further, and 
Adrienne’s succeeding remarks were received without opposi- 
tion and without response. This conversation, however, was 
the beginning of a closer acquaintance. Adrienne studied- her 
new friend, and soon formed a neat, compact little judgment 
about her, which satisfied herself, and was very serviceable 
for every-day use, since Viola never showed enough of herself 
to invalidate the theory. 

Miss Lancaster thought that she might have influence for 
good over her new friend, and being always zealous in well- 
doing, she tore herself occasionally from her numerous home- 
duties to spend a day or two at Upton Castle. The mentor 
noticed with approval Viola’s continual self-suppression, her 
cheerfulness in her mother’s presence, her disregard of head- 
aches and other signs of ill-health, and her evident determina- 
tion to do her duty. 

But this was mere stoicism and power of will; not the 
smiling acceptance of one’s troubles, the sweet welcoming of 
tribulation which delighted Adrienne’s dutiful soul. 

“It is a great comfort,” said that adviser judiciously — “it 
is a great comfort that, however we may be placed, duty is 
never far to seek* Life is full of bitter disappointments” 
(the speaker sighed heavily), “and there is much pain and 
anxiety to bear; but if we keep up a brave heart and do well 
what lies to our hand, we shall assuredly feel a quiet joy and 
satisfaction which nothing else in this world can give. Do 
you not find it so?” 

“A quiet joy and satisfaction?” enquired Viola, turning 
her hungry, melancholy eyes upon her companion. 

That look seemed to be answer enough, for Adrienne took 
her hand and said earnestly: “I fear, dear Viola, that you 
are not so happy as you might be. I see there are sad things 
in your lot, as there are in most lots, yet I think there are 
elements of happiness too, if you would take advantage of 
them. Your husband is fond of you ” 

The speaker paused, in case Viola should have anything to 
say on this head, but she answered nothing, and Adrienne 
continued: “He is ready to give you anything you desire; 


174 


THE WING OE AZRAEL. 


you have a comfortable, even luxurious home, and no anxiety 
about money mattters! No one knows what that means ex- 
cept those who have such anxiety. Viola, sometimes, in my 
weak moments, I feel inclined to ask if it is worth while 
struggling on, with these never-ceasing little economies, these 
never-ceasing efforts to make one shilling play the part of 
two. But then come little solaces and pleasures, and after the 
fit of depression you pluck up a brave heart again and go on. 
After all, it is duty, and that makes it possible and right.” 

Viola assented. 

“1 don’t tell you about my own petty griefs, except to let 
you see that you have companions in trouble all around you — ” 

“ I never doubted it for a moment.” 

“ — and that you are spared a very great deal of ceaseless 
worry, by having no anxiety with regard to those odious 
pounds, shillings, and pence !” 

There was a long pause. Then Viola made a remark, not 
at all in the spirit which Adrienne had intended to call forth. 

“I really don’t see what is the use of our all coming into 
the world to struggle and battle in this way ; it is so very” — 
she paused — “ ridiculous.” 

“ I don’t think so,” Adrienne returned hastily. “ There is 
not one of us but can do some little good in the world if he 
will only use his opportunities.” 

“If we all can, we all don’t — I mean, we don’t all,” said 
Viola ; “ and the few that do do a little good are overbalanced 
by the many that do a little harm. Of course one must do 
one’s duty, but I feel sometimes as if it were altogether hope- 
less and useless.” 

Adrienne’s orthodox views on this point had ferreted out 
of their hiding-places Viola’s new and secret heresies. She 
was alarmed at them herself as soon as the words were uttered, 
and meekly accepted Adrienne’s next argument without a 
word. 

“ It is not a hopeless struggle, dear Viola, if once we realise 
the beauty and the blessedness of sacrifice. That is the key 
to all the terrible problems of life ; that alone makes us under- 
stand, if but dimly, that the highest good is to be got out of 
pain, and that the most blessed life is the life of sorrow.” 

Viola had it on her lips to say: “Then we ought to inflict 
upon one another as much sorrow as we can, in order that 
we may all quickly attain blessedness,” but she changed her 
mind, and gave a hurried murmur of acquiescence. 

Adrienne little guessed what demons she had raised by her 
“judicious” influence. 

All this time. Bob Hunter, in the most persevering manner, 
was pursuing his eccentric suit. Before long, Mrs. Dixie be- 
came joyfully aware of what had happened, and was now 
making her daughter’s life a burden to her by urgent entreat- 
ies to accept the advantageous proposal. The old lady sought 
and obtained the sympathy of the rector’s wife in her bitter 


GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND. 


175 


disappointment, and as for Mrs. Pellett, she thought Adrienne’s 
conduct was wanting in principle. If her poor dear mother’s 
death were to be hastened by this ridiculous refusal, Mrs. 
Pellett hoped that Adrienne would not be overwhelmed with 
lifelong remorse — she sincerely hoped that she would not suf- 
fer in that excruciating manner. Adrienne was deeply trou- 
bled. Her mother had really worried herself ill, and Bob 
kept coming to open up the sore afresh. 

‘‘Very likely it is your last chance,” said Mrs. Dixie, tear- 
fully. “We see so few people in this retired village, and 
what is to become of you after I am gone if you do not make 
a home for yourself now ? O Adrienne ! you know the fate 
of an unmarried woman who has to make her own living. 
Don’t sadden my declining years by the thought that I have 
to leave you alone in the world, and penniless.” 

Adrienne shivered. All that her mother said was so ghastly 
true. 

Marriage without love, or ! 

“Viola, under any conceivable circumstances would you 
have married Bob Hunter ?” 

“Yes, under some conceivable circumstances,” Viola re- 
plied, ‘‘and so I expect would you and most women. My 
husband says that every woman has her price !” 

‘‘But you don’t believe that, surely!” exclaimed Miss Lan- 
caster, much shocked. 

“ I’m afraid I do,” said Viola. 

Her companion gazed at her searchingly. 

“You mean that every woman would marry for money or 
position, if only she were offered money and position enough ?” 

“Oh! no; different women sell themselves for different 
things; some for money and position, some for money and 
position for their relations, some for the happiness of another 
person— yes, I think that every woman has her price,” she 
repeated. 

“ It seems almost a crime to marry without love,” said 
Adrienne gravely. 

Viola paused. 

“ It may sometimes be a crime to refuse to marry without 
love, may it not ?” she suggested. 

“Never; unless perhaps some one’s life were at stake,— 
and even then— well, it is a difficult question. If it is a crime 
to marry for money, the punishment must be awful.” 

There was a long, significant pause. 

“How difficult it sometimes is to clearly see one’s duty!” 
exclaimed Adrienne. (Only a few weeks ago she had talked 
so glibly and so comfortably about duty.) “Is it purity of 
motive or is it egotism that makes a woman shrink from 
marrying to please her relations ?” 

“ Well may she shrink!” cried Viola. 

“ Yet I do believe firmly,” said .\dnei-ine, “ that the domes- 


176 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


tic life and its interests call out a woman’s best qualities; that 
before she marries she has scarcely hved.” 

Viola was silent. 

‘ ‘ If one could only be married without a husband !” ex- 
claimed Adrienne, laughing ; “ Tie is the drawback ! Poor Bob ! 
He would keep me in jokes, wouldn’t he? But oh! the awful- 
ness of having that creature perpetually about one ! I like to 
be able to look up to a man.” 

“Yes, but it is so difficult,” said Viola naively, at which 
her companion laughed. 

Time went on, and Bob continued to press his suit. 

Mrs. Pellett, the mdefatigable, one day electrified Upton by 
the information that she had seen Mr. Hunter going up the 
avenue of Fir Dell to call on “ that Mrs. Lincoln.” 

“ That comes of not saying ‘ Yes ’ when she had a chance,” 
said Mrs. Pellett. “ Perhaps she’ll see how silly she was, now 
that it may be too late.” 

“ Viola, the necessity for decision has been removed from 
me 1” said Adrienne. “ Bob Hunter has deserted me for Mi’s. 
Lincoln.” 

Viola turned pale. 

“I wish that woman had never come here 1” she exclaimed. 

“So do I !” assented Adrienne, “for more reasons than— 
Bob Hunter. It is strange how unprincipled women seem to 
have a hold over men, which good w^omen seldom achieve.” 

Adrienne ran over the list of good women— Mi’s. Evans, 
Mrs. Dixie, Mrs. Sedley, Mrs. Pellett— and shook her head. 

“You wouldn’t suspect my brother Harry of being led 
astray by a bad woman ; and yet he sits at Mrs. Lincoln’s feet 
— indeed, I sadly fear he is deeply attached to her— of course, 
this is between ourselves. It has long been a great trouble 
to me. Poor Harry ! He is such a fine, generous, passionate 
creature that, when he once loves, it is like tearing the heart 
out to deprive him of his ideal. I, like you, wish to Heaven 
the woman had never come here I” 

“ She must be very wicked,” said Viola. 

“ Very wanting in womanly feeling, at any rate,” Adrienne 
amended. “I cannot understand a self-respecting woman 
allowing herself to be talked about in the way Mrs. Lincoln 
is talked about. I would undergo tortures rather than 
that !” 

“You would rather submit to be talked to, as a woman is 
talked to (and about) after she is married,” suggested Viola, 
with a vivid flush. “I can’t say that I think, as far as talk- 
ing is concerned, that one gains so much by remaining 
respectable.” 

“Oh, my dear Viola, for Heaven’s sake, don’t say such 
things; it grieves me to hear you.” 

As Adrienne herself had not been guiltless of little vulgari- 
ties, which Viola disliked and resented, no answer was forth- 
coming to this remonstrance. 


GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND. 


177 


TMngs were going very badly at the Castle just at present. 
Philip, was always at home, and this for Viola meant a greater 
amount of suffering. There was no respite. The day was 
dull and weary and filled with a thousand trials and annoy- 
ances great and small ; but the night — the time for stillness, 
solitude, and repose, the time to built up strength and draw 
in new hope and peace — the night was a living hell ! 

She might never be alone, never feel that she possessed her- 
self ; her very thoughts were scarcely free. ‘ ‘ Freedom” was an 
unknown word; the only words that ruled in that red-hot 
purgatory were “right,” “duty,” “submission.” 

What mmate of the harem, she used to wonder, ever en- 
dured slavery more absolute than this ? If she could but tear 
out heart and soul, so that she might remain a mere shell, 
animate but not sentient, and let that stay and be wife, house- 
keeper, mother,— whatever was wanted,— it would do its part 
better than she did it, and there would be none of this 
hatred and loathing, this sinful, invincible shrinking from her 
accepted duty. What heaven could be worth such a price ! 

She was now utterly alone, cut off from human help; for 
even Harry’s interest had been led elsewhere. The protecting 
hand whose finger-tips had been slowly slipping away was 
now quite withdrawn. 

A punishment this, thought Viola, for daring to let her mind 
dwell among the memories of those scenes before her mar- 
riage, when Harry had tried so hard to save her. 

The longing for unconsciousness, for death, became unap- 
peasable— to be mercifully wafted away to some quiet region 
where there was no heart-ache, no indignity, no altar whore 
the souls and bodies of women were offered up in sacrifice, 
while the honourable and respected of the earth danced round 
singing songs of triumph. What though that gentle world 
were canopied with clouds shutting out the sunshine of the 
earth ? What though vapours still and sullen hovered there, 
lulling the spirit in a dreamless rest ? The sweetness of life, 
the glory of the world was not for her; welcome then the 
land of silence and of shadows, where sorrow was laid to 
sleep and the throb of misery ceased. Not even the fear that 
it was wicked to long so for what Heaven had not willed, 
could overcome the yearning. 

It seemed as if things could not go on much longer in their 
present state, and yet it was evident that there would be no 
sudden break. Mrs. Sedley had done her work too well. 

There was at this time many small difficulties of the petty 
and worrying order to contend with. Mrs. Barber was per- 
petually coming to Viola with discomposing stories about the 
household affairs— stories always given in the most majestic 
language, which, like all other luxuries, had to be paid for ; 
and Mrs. Barber’s langiiage was paid for ruinously in tliat 
commodity of undetermined value that we call “ time.” 

Instead of trying to set matters right, she talked about how 


178 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


they went wrong ; and the domestic machinery began to groan 
and creak unpleasantly. This did not tend to improve mat- 
ters between husband and wife. Philip was not used to lying 
upon “crumpled rose-leaves;” and he frankly told his wife 
that if she could make herself neither agreeable nor useful, he 
really failed to see what she was there for. 

Not for my own pleasure, assuredly!” Viola had once been 
goaded into replying. 

“ I’ll be damned if it’s for mine, then!” cried Philip, with a 
snarl. 

y Then let me go.” 

“Where to, may I ask ?” Pliilip gave a loud laugh. He 
had a newspaper m his hand, and with insolent coolness he 
was reading at intervals. 

‘ ‘ That does that matter, so long as I may but go.” 

He gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. 

“How difficult it is to make you realize your position,” he 
said. Do you think that you have only yourself to consult ? 
Let me remind you that you bear my name; that (to speak so 
that you can understand) it is branded upon you, and by that 
brand I can claim you and restrain you wherever you may 
be so long as you live. Now are matters clear to you ?” 

She turned veiy white, but answered, seemingly without 
emotion : ‘ ‘ Quite clear ; you hold over me a power of more than 
life and death. You cAn treat me as you choose; for open 
resistance (even if I could resort to it) would mean for, me 
simply ruin. I am at your mercy. I think, however, that, 
in common fairness, all this ought to have been explained to 
me before I married.” 

“ My dear,” said Philip, “ a man can get a woman to marry 
him on any terms. It is her own look-out if she doesn’t know 
what marriage involves. She ought to find out ; but do you 
suppose finding out would stop a woman from marrying? 
Not a bit of it; not if she found out that she would have to 
throw herself on her husband’s funeral pyre, like an Indian 
widow. These are plain facts, my dear, and any woman of 
the world will tell you the same thing. Besides, who, pray, 
are you, to be discontented with what satisfies other women ? 
I am tired of the subject. Be good enough to give a little 
attention to your household duties for the future, and spare 
me further mysteries.” 

Philip turned away and buried himself in the paper. For 
a moment Viola stood before him, hesitating as if she intended 
to say something more; but apparently changing her mind, 
she walked slowly away. 

If Philip had brought all the powers of his mind to bear upon 
the subject for the next year, he would never have guessed 
the feeling that at once made his wife seek Mrs. Barber and 
consult with her seriously as to the means of effecting an im- 
provement in the state of the domestic affairs. 

It was the first time that the mistress of the house had 


GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, AND FRIEND. 179 

actively used her authority, and it greatly startled Mrs. 
Barber. 

That high functionary of course thought that any suggested 
change was impossible ; but in course of time she became con- 
vinced that it had to be made, and reluctantly set about effect- 
ing the task. 

Philip some time later, noticing that his wishes had been 
carried out minutely, gave an approving nod to his wife, and 
remarked that he was glad to see that ^e had taken his ad- 
vice to heart and turned over a new leaf. 

“How shall I reward you for this sensible conduct, my 
dear!” 

‘ ‘ I want no reward, thank you ; I am glad you are 
pleased.” 

“What do you want, then?” demanded Philip, with a 
frown. 

“ Nothing.” 

“ So be it. I had a little present I was going to give you — 
a present that would make the eyes of most wives glisten ; 
but since you want nothing, you shall have nothing. ” 

He put back the red leather case, which he had brought out 
of his pocket, and went on with his breakfast. 

“If you would condescend to ask me for this confounded 
trinket, and take a little interest in it, I would give it vou even 
now,” said Philip, after a long silence. “ I am not a bear or a 
tyrant, whatever you may say.” 

“ I never said you were either.” 

“ Well, will you ask me for this thing?” 

“ I cannot accept it as a reward for anything I may have 
done that pleases you,” said Viola, flushing. 

“ What a mad- woman you are 1 And, pray, why not?” 

“I have only done what I thought myself bound in duty 
to do.” 

“But if I choose to show that I am pleased with you ” 

Viola shook her head. 

“Asa reward, I cannot accept it!” she repeated. 

‘ ‘ Idiot !” 

Philip took the case again out of his pocket, opened it and 
laid it on the table. It contained a star of magnificent bril- 
liants, gleaming and scintillating upon their bed of sapphire 
velvet. He watched her face. 

“ Do you like it?” 

“It is lovely!” 

“Do you wish to have it?” 

She shook her head. 

“ And what if I say that you must have it?” 

“ You have already clearly explained to me that I have no 
choice but to obey you ; moreover, it has always been my 
desire to obey you to the best of my ability.” 

“Very well; then take it and wear it, if you please.” 

He handed her the case, which she took. 


180 


TRE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


“ I am tired of this sort of thing, let me tell you, Viola,” 
he went on. “ It is time that you should clearly understand 
your position as my wife; and then perhaps you will see 
that your best policy is conciliation, not defiance.” 

“I have never been defiant.” 

“You have certainly never been conciliating !” he exclaimed. 
“A woman can generally get her own way with a man 
(within limits), if she knows how to manage. You are not 
half clever.” 

Viola gave a wintry little smile and a faint shrug of the 
shoidders. 

“Now, you understand that I want you to wear that star. 
I don’t give it you to be locked away in some old drawer 
and never seen. It would look well in your hair.” 

“ I will do what you wish,” she said. 

Philip made an impatient movement. 

“/ don’t understand you,” he exclaimed. “You are as 
pig-headed ” 

Viola looked up. 

“ You talk about making me understand my position,” she 
said, “ but it seems to me that I understand it very well. I 
am (in your own words) branded with your name. It gives 
you a claim over me so long as I live. I understand that 
^uite clearly. If I were to leave you, you could make life 
impossible to me. I have no more illusions. I see and un- 
derstand. It is just because I do see and understand that I 
offend you. You would have me act two parts at the same 
time. That cannot be, even at your command. You are my 
husband — you married me in the face of my repeated assur- 
ance that t did not wish to marry you — you have thus become 
my master, and, if you choose, my tyrant. I am at your 
mercy. In these circumstances how can you expect from me 
anything except deference and obedience? If you are my 
master, now and for ever, you cannot hope to establish any 
other relation between us. You take your stand on your 
authority, and there you must remain.” 

Philip rose slowly and went to the fireplace. “It may sur- 
prise you to learn that you talk damned nonsense, my dear,” 
he said in his suavest tones. 

“Then perhaps I had better hold my tongue,” she an- 
swered quietly. 

Philip shrugged his shoulders. 

“It is to be hoped that you will have children,” he said 
with an intonation that made her ’shrink as if she had been 
touched with a hot iron. “ They would soon bring you to 
your senses,” 

“Do you find you are generally able to foretell how cir- 
cumstances will affect me?” she afcd coldly. 

“I have some knowledge of human nature,” he replied; 
“and I have kept my eyes open. A married woman who has 
no children may give her husband a little trouble; but the 


TEE WEST wma. 


181 


first baby infallibly drives the nonsense out of her. After 
that, the game is in his hands. She has got to behave ration- 
ally for the child’s sake.” 

Philip gave a slight smile as he said it, which was subtly, 
profoundly wounding. 

‘‘If you are determined to deprive me of every grain of 
self-esteem, if you are resolved to humiliate me to the very 
dust,” said Viola, in a low voice full of suppressed passion, 
“it may please you to know that I recognise my utter help- 
lessness to resist you even in that. While my mother is 
alive ” She stopped abruptly. 

“While your mother is alive, you are afraid to make a 
scandal in her respectable family I” said Philip. “Very 
right and very wise, my dear. I drink to your respected 
mother’s very good health, and may her days be long in the 
land !” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WEST WING. 

A LARGE portion of Upton Castle had remained uninhabited. 
Sir Philip made various jocular allusions to the size ^ the 
familv which might find accommodation in the great de- 
serted rooms of the west wing. Upton generally made one 
joke last a long time, and the prudent village also took care 
that it should not be of a recondite or impersonal character: 
that might cause an epidemic of headache. A pleasantry that 
required one to think, was as bad as a play that made de- 
mands on one’s pocket-handkerchief. . . 

Of course Viola was not allowed to miss the sweet savour 
of the Upton joke. Philip repeated it to her with an insolent 
laugh, and added one or two apposite remarks, which Viola 
would willingly have burnt out of her brain with hot irons, 
so that their imprint might be eternally erased. 

That vast deserted wing over which Upton made merry had 
become Viola’s favourite haunt, in the winter afternoons, 
when the closing in of the light made work or reading im- 
possible, and the stillness of the dusk creeping over the sea 
brought a tired lull to the sense of unappeasable misery. 

The left wing was nearest to the ruin, and from the win- 
dows of its vast old rooms one could look almost into the 
keep, where Viola often used to see Caleb working before his 
doorstep, until the darkness crept up and forced him to desist. 

Sometimes she would go out and have a talk with him, 
which she always found a great relief, for Caleb could arrest 
her own painful thoughts and carry her away into his cold, 


182 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


clear, sorrowless world of ‘‘pure reason,” But often Viola 
was too wretched to seek this respite; the solitude which was 
driving her trouoles deeper and deeper into her soul became 
daily more and more of a necessity. She shrank at the ap- 
proach of her fellow-creatures, from whom something hurtful, 
foolish, detestable, might, it seemed, always be expected. 
Like some animal accustomed to rough handling, she flinched 
even when no blow was intended. 

The old rooms of the west wing were dark and dim, as if 
with the shadows of many years. They seemed to Viola to 
conceal a haunting danger, an unknown mysterious danger, 
hanging like a curse over the house. No one knew of her 
visits to this region of silence and shadows; she was sup- 
posed by the household to have gone out with Triton, or per- 
haps with Dorothy Evans, who sometimes accompanied her 
on her interminable rambles. 

She kept her secret jealously, stealing in unobserved by 
the door leading onto the terrace, and up the great staircase, 
till she found herself safe and alone in the long corridors, out 
of which opened the innumerable musty -smelling rooms. 

She scarcely dared to breathe as she moved with careful 
footsteps over the oaken floors, half expecting to see some 
form emerge from the gathering shadows, or rise up as she 
passed from the great four-post bedsteads, whose dark cano- 
pies must be enibellished, as she fancied, with phantasma- 
goria of human dreams. 

Among the old rooms was one called the death -chamber, 
which especially fascinated her. Here, generation after gen- 
eration, the Dendraiths had died— sometimes calmly in the 
shadows of the great black bedstead, occasionally by violence. 

In examining a fantastically carved cabinet which stood 
near the mantelpiece Viola discovered a number of old 
letters written in the last century, by the unhappy lady whose 
story Philip had told on that fatal day long ago. Many other 
musty treasures came to light, — a bit of faded ribbon ; a silver 
thimble; and a piece of dim silken embroidery, with one of 
its miraculous flowers of unknown genus half finished, the 
tiiroaded needle stuck into the silk, as if the work had been 
just laid down. 

What were the fifty or a hundred years that had passed 
since the skilful fingers touched that dainty piece of em- 
broidery ? A mere fiction, an unreality. 

The two realities— the life of that by-gone lady and that 
of her not less unhappy successor -seemed to annihilate be- 
tween them the empty phantom time, and to touch each other 
closely. The little relics of everyday occupations which had 
lain here undisturbed since their owner passed away spoke 
of her so loudly that Viola felt as if she had known the 
woman who had slept and dreamt and, alas! w^ept in this old 
room, who had woven her sorrows into silken devices, and 


THE WEST WING. 183 

died with the grief still in her soul — the embroidered flower of 
Paradise still uncompleted. 

Viola took possession of the key of this cabinet, and mas- 
tered the secret of the hiding-place of the treasures. 

On one windy afternoon in the twihght she stole up to the 
old room, taking with her a small narrow packet. She went 
first to the window and looked out. The waves were rolling 
one after the other over the expanse of grey waters, ocean’s 
battalions making fierce onslaught against the shore. How 
calm, how beneficent, these same waters had looked on a cer- 
tain summer afternoon, — that afternoon when she might have 
averted her fate had she been willing to fling off the claims of 
conscience ! Could it be that she regretted having done her 
duty ? She leant her head desolately against the window- 
sill. xALdrienne had spoken of the quiet joy and satisfaction 
that follows duty performed, but Viola felt nothing but a pas- 
sionate misery, to which she saw no possible end. Ev'en if 
release came to-morrow, she felt that her soul was seared and 
branded for life, and that there was nothing left for her but 
to die. Never had she since her childhood been hopeful or 
light-hearted ; now it was impossible to expect relief. 

There were no stores of garnered joy to fall back upon in 
her trouble. This was like a sudden savage tightening of a 
cord that for years had been cutting into the flesh, wearing 
aAvay the powers of rebound and the powers of enjoyment, 
just at the time when these should have been growing and 
accumulating. 

Mrs. Sedley’s long life of persistent self-neglect and self- 
deterioration was bearing its fruit, twenty and a hundred 
fold ; the punishment, when it came, was heavy, and it fell 
on innocent shoulders. 

Viola remained at the window watching the waves as they 
roiled over, melancholy, dreary, unceasing. Such were tlio 
movements of human destiny; the restless labour without 
aim or hope; a weary response to the perpetual stimulus of a 
blind necessity. 

What did these everlasting waves achieve, as they rose and 
sank and rose again, expending their force merely upon their 
own birth element, effecting nothing ? Caleb Foster said that 
in the course of ages they wore away the land by their cease- 
less fretting, and added thus a few miles to the dominion of 
the ocean. 

Perhaps the human waves were also wearing something 
away with their repeated onslaughts, adding thus to the 
dominion of— what ? That was the awful question. And in 
any case, was it worth while ? 

Another dangerous thought came: what if all that we are 
told about Providence be the offspring of human imagination, 
part of our blind response to the goad that drives us all to 
live and think and feel and strive till the breath goes from us 
and the life-fever is stilled? Oh ! what would her mother say 


184 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


to such wild questions? What would even Adrienne say? 
Viola felt as if she had been sinking deeper and deeper into 
some black nightmare gulf, whence there was no returning : 
an antechamber leading by a long, narrowing passage to the 
regions of the damned. 

She looked round her at the sinister dusk gathering and 
thickening in the corners of the silent room, at the vast oak 
bedstead and the carved cabinet with its grinning faces. She 
touched the packet she held in her hand with a singular 
gesture, and stood looking down at it steadily. A wave of 
colour spread over her face, and her eyes hghted up. She 
drew away the paper wrappings and disclosed the knife 
which Harry Lancaster had given her on her wedding-day, 
and her husband had forbidden her to keep. Evidently in 
this one particular she had failed in obedience.^ She looked 
at the ornament attentively, examined it this side and that, 
and ran her finger along the steel. 

Viola thought of Harry’s impassioned words of warning 
before her marriage, and it occurred to her, swiftly in pass- 
ing, that he might have given her the thing not quite without 
a purpose ! But the idea was dismissed as preposterous. 

Harry! How suddenly he had vanished into the great 
silence which engulfs so many who seem to have made them- 
selves part and parcel of our lives! Where was he? What 
was he doing and thinking? Scarcely a word of his had been 
forgotten. He had succeeded in weaving himself into Viola’s 
memories, as the by-gone Lady Dendraith had woven her 
troubles into her silken impossible fiowers. And he, too, had 
left the threaded needle sticking in the silk, and gone away 
and leff the work unfinished. 

Did he ever think of her now? Did he still ? Viola 

frowned and hurried away from the window, trying to banish 
that question from her mind. Did he love her still? Of 
course not; of course not— she was no longer free; he had 
ceased loving her as soon as she became Philip’s wife. Harry 
would not be so wicked as to let his passion cross the ada- 
mantine marriage boundary. No; she must go through the 
world without his love, as she had elected to do; it was the 
maddest folly to permit her thoughts to wander back to the 
old times which could never be recalled. She wondered how 
she would feel if Harry were to walk into the room at this 
moment. 

Her heart beat fast at the thought, and then faster as she 
discovered how much it had moved her. She was alarmed. 
Of all forms of sin, that of loving one man while married to 
another had seemed to Viola the farthest removed from the 
sphere of possibility ; she had always turned from the idea 

with disgust and horror. And now ! Now she could at 

least guess how such dreadful things might occur, and what 
a weight of guilt and misery the wretched woman must carry 


THE WEST WING. 185 

at her heart until the sin was expiated by some frightful 
suifering, or cast out by the grace of Heaven. 

Restlessly the lonely figure began to pace the room up and 
down, up and down; the knife still in her hand. 

“ Surely he will not find it here,” she muttered half aloud, 
going over to the cabinet, and opening the drawer containing 
the letters and embroidery. Taking the knife in both hands, 
she laid its point for a moment against her breast, pressing 
the handle a little. She let it rest there for a moment, as if 
questioning her ability to press it still further, should con- 
science permit. She was about to place it beside the other 
treasures, when a sound through the dusk made all the blood 
rush to her heart. 

She looked round in terror, but could see nothing. Her im- 
pulse was to get out of the room as quickly as she could, but 
the dared not move. Some terrible shape, she felt sure, would 
meet her from every darkened corner; and as she passed the 
bed, a figure would rise up out of its shadows and clutch her. 
Oh, to be out of this awful room! 

She braced herself for a great effort. The whole width of 
the room had to be crossed ; the door was at the farthest cor- 
ner; the bed occupied the middle of the wall, opposite the 
window, and must be passed in order to reach the door. 

She set her teeth and moved forward, approaching the 
gi'eat bedstead, and instinctively quickening her. footsteps. 
Thank Heaven 1 In another second the ordeal would be over. 
But oh ! if the door did not open quickly, she thought she 
would go mad ! Now for it I Her eyes were fixed in fasci- 
nated horror on the bed as she prepared to make a rush. She 
had taken two steps forward, when suddenly she staggered 
back with a sick gasp; for out of the shadows of that bed- 
stead, as she approached — merciful Heaven 1 it was no fancy, 
but a ghostly met I — a figure did rise up, and a pair of arms 
did stretch out to clutch her ! Viola uttered a shriek of terror. 

She saw something dark standing above her, a white face, 
and two white hands approaching. She tottered back, strug- 
gling blindly towards the window, ready to tear it open and 
fling herself out; then her power of movement failed her as 
in a nightmare, and the room swam round. She felt the white 
hands on her neck, the dark arms close round her, and then 
something within her brain seemed to give way; she knew 
no more. 

When she awoke to consciousness, the canopy of the carved 
bedstead was above her head and she was on it, weak and 
helpess. 

She could see the demon faces of its carvings by the light 
of a flickering candle which stood on the cabinet. 

“ Do you feel better now?” 

Viola started and trembled. It was Philip’s voice. 

“Yes.” 

“ Hold your tongue then and take this.” He gave her some 


186 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


brandy, then let her lie quiet for ten minutes. At the end of 
that time he came to the bedside. “You are easier to frighten 
than I thought,” he said, moistening her forehead with eau- 
de-cologne. I think you might have stopped to think for a 
moment, before you fainted. You surely don’t suppose tliat 
1 didn’t know of your frequent visits to this Bluebeard 
Chamber.” 

“ You knew?” repeated Viola. 

“Naturally I knew. I thought you were coming too often, 
and began to suspect something was up— secret assignations, 
for all I knew ; so I concluded it was time to reconnoitre. I 
reconnoitred from the convenient depths of my great-grand- 
mother’s four-poster. I didn’t mean to give you such a fright, 
though — how you did shriek !” Philip laughed at the remem- 
brance. “But I confess I thought a little start might be 
salutary. It’s uncanny to have a wife who spends hours in 
disused rooms, looking as if she were going to commit suicide 
from an upper window. Not that I am afraid of her ending 
her days in that fashion. It pleases young minds of a certain 
order to dally with such ideas, but they seldom come to busi- 
ness. I don’t expect to be a widower yet awhile, my dear.” 

Philip smiled urbanely as he bent over the figure of his 
wife, whose closed eyelids and exhausted attitude pleaded 
vainly for a moment’s respite from his sneers. 

He thought she was shamming, or at least yielding unneces- 
sarily to the effects of the shock. 

“You would like to know, perhaps, how I became ac- 
quainted with your visits here. In a very simple way. 
Caleb Foster had seen you at the window, and without know- 
ing that he was betraying a secret, happened to mention the 
fact to me. As there is a staircase leading from this room to 
the terrace, I thought perhaps you were making ingenious 
use of it, for romantic purposes of your own. Women with a 
Puritanical training are generally the most enterprising 
when they get the chance.” 

Viola raised herself for a moment, but her strength failed 
her, and she sank back exhausted, the angry tears, to her 
intense disgust, welling up into her eyes. She hid away her 
face that Philip might not see them. But he was not to be 
deceived. 

“ Oh 1 if you are going to resort to weeping I have no more 
to say. You had better let me take you to your ovn room, 
and i can send Mrs. Barber or the maid to you. I daresay 
women know better the etiquette in such matters than I do.” 

“ I can walk,” said Viola, as he began to lift her from the 
bed. 

“ Try,” he said. 

She managed to totter a few steps towards the door. Philip 
lifted her in his arms. “You can leave me here and send 
Mrs. Barber to me,” she said; “put me down.” 

‘ ‘ Nonsense ! I shall take you to your room. ” 


SIBELLA. 


187 


“ I would much prefer to stay here. Philip, put me down,” 
she repeated sharply, struggling to get free. But he paid not 
the slighest attention. 

She was carried down the long empty corridors to her 
room. As he laid her on her bed, he bent dov,m over her, his 
arms still round her, as if enjoying the sense of her helpless- 
ness and his power. He was smiling into her face. 

“Now,” he said, “ for the ministering angelc and sal vola- 
tile. I think this afternoon may be an instructive one for 
you, my dear. You may observe that your doings are not 
secret from me. I have ways and means of finding out every- 
thing I want to knaw. It would take a much subtler person 
than you are to baffle me, and one who is rather more of an 
adept at telling lies. Let me advise you, for your good, to be 
open with me. It is your best policy. You have plenty of 
opportunities if you woidd only use them to your own advan- 
tage. I am quite open to woman’s wiles, my dear, if you did 
but know it.” He g’ave her a little careless insolent caress, 
and walked off smiling. 

“If you only knew how I hate you!” Viola exclaimed, with 
a sob of passion. 

“My dear, I know it quite well. People generally hate 
their masters, if they are mad enough to oppose them. Again 
I say, in all good fellowship, try the other pplicy !” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

SIBELLA. 

Viola was seriously shaken by the shock which she had 
sustained on that afternoon in the West Wing. She shrank 
from going about alone, especially after dusk, and merely to 
look at the window of that dreadful room from outside would 
make her turn cold in full noontide. 

“Dorothy, I wish you would introduce me to some of your 
villagers ; my life is so utterly useless that I think I am reap- 
ing the punishment of all cumberers of the ground : my own 
society is becoming unbearable to me.” 

Dorothy, though much surprised, gladly did as she was 
asked, but added that really there were not enough poor 
people at Upton to supply the needs of the already existing 
district- visitors. 

In spite of disappointments and difficulties Viola made a de- 
termined effort to lay the energies of her wounded soul at the 
feet of fellow-sufferers. 

She was coming back from a round of visits at Upton one 
afternoon, feeling sad and disheartened ; it was late, and she 


188 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


felt a nervous dread of being alone in that house for two hours 
at dusk. She decided to take a round so as to make the time 
of solitude shorter. Home was becoming almost intolerable 
to her, and the strain of mind and nerve had begun to show 
only too clearly in her face. 

Viola bent her footsteps towards the sea. Arrived at the 
cliff ’s edge, she paused and peered over. 

A man was standing at the beach, throwing stones into the 
water. If only it were Caleb! A good wholesome talk with 
that amiable encyclopaedia would be like a tonic to the over- 
wrought brain. 

It must be Caleb ; who else would be on the shore at this 
time ? 

Viola determined to descend. The way was steep, but not 
difldcult to one who knew the windings of the path. She lost 
sight of the figure on the beach, and when she arrived there, 
somewhat breathless, he was faraway in the distance, looking 
very small and very dim. She broke into a run, but on 
coming closer, she began to feel doubtful whether it were 
Caleb after all. 

The sea ran heavily and hungi'ily upon the beach, dragging 
the stones back and forward with each pulse-beat. Viola con- 
tinued her reasonless pursuit. The power that drew her on 
seemed irresistible. 

Suddenly the nian, who had been walking at a brisk pace, 
came to a standstill, and looked up towards a pathway that 
led from the beach to a little wind- shorn wood nestling in a 
hollow of the downs. From the heart of the wood a tiny 
column of blue smoke rose out of shelter to be buffeted by a 
boisterous sea-breeze, and driven inland. 

Viola paused with beating heart, still instinctively keeping 
out of sight. A strange idea had taken possession of her that 
this man was Harry Lancaster! 

She started violently, and shrank back into .the fissure 
where she had concealed herself; for her suspicion was con- 
firmed. Her heart ga.ve an excited bound and then seemed 
to stand stiU altogether. She watched his movements breath- 
lessly. After looking up to the little wood for some seconds 
Harry turned away and walked to the verge of the sea. Viola 
could hear the great stones crunching under his footsteps as 
he plunged across them. 

He stood and watched the waves rolling up, and the hissing 
back-rush of the water over the small pebbles. Occasionally 
he would turn and take another expectant look at the path- 
way, but ten minutes passed, and nobody appeared. 

For whom was he waiting? 

Tlie tide had just turned, and every seventh wave brought 
the line of wetted pebbles further towards the cliff, causing 
Harry to step back gradually in the same direction. He 
came at last within a dozen yards of Viola’s hiding-place. 
Yes ; there was no mistaking that upright soldier-like fi^re. 


8IBELLA. 


189 


that peculiar pose of the head. There was a very sombre ex- 
pression in his face ; the lips were set and hard, as if their 
owner suffered pain. 

The temptation to reveal her presence was very strong, but 
Viola, resisting it, held her breath lest she should betray her- 
self. Interest, yearning for sympathy, dramatic curiosity, 
all battled with the nervous horror of being discovered. 

Finally, conscience, as usual, turned the scale. 

Then came a scorching thought I Fir Dell lay among the 
trees just up here; could Harry be waiting for M^rs. Lincoln ? 
It seemed impossible— Mrs. Lincoln— a married woman, and 
not a good one ! No ; Harry was not that kind of man. His 
character was too deep for such mockery of true love. Then 
came a chilling consciousness, that what was unforgiveable in 
a woman, a man might do without ceasing to respect himself 
or to command the respect of others, v^atever he might 
do or feel, however, Viola was sure that she ought o avoid 
him. Since the line where sin begins and innocenc ds did 
not coincide in the two cases, her own role in the event of a 
meeting might prove beyond her powers. It would be like a 
game where one player was bound by the rules and the other 
wasp not. 

Again Harry turned to look at the pathway from the wood, 
and this time he hurried forward, raising his hat with a re- 
lieved smile. 

“I feared you were not coming!” he said. 

“ I very nearly did not come,” a voice singularly soft and 
rich returned, a woman’s voice implying many things, as 
voices do. 

Viola drew in her breath, too excited and bewildered to 
realise that she had now assumed the part of eavesdropper. 

“ Max Hoffmann and his followers have just left me,” the 
voice continued, “or I should have been here before. Not 
been waiting long, I hope?” She gave him another hearty 
shake of the hand. “How nice it is to meet again after all 
this time ! I can see you have a gi*eat deal to tell me if you 
choose.” She looked anxigusly and affectionately in his face. 

“ You are right,” he said; “ you always know, Sibella.” 

B.y this time the two figures had moved a little and were 
walking forward side by side along the shore. 

Viola saw a graceful form clad from head to foot in rich 
dark red. Against the grey of the sea and sky and the white 
cliffs that touch of warm colour was most cheering. In- 
stinctively Viola glanced at her own lady -like gown of nonde- 
script tint, and was dimly conscious that the difference of 
attire indicated some radical difference of temperament. 

Firm and fearless was this woman’s gait, and the same spirit 
showed in the upright pose of the head. It was scarcely pos- 
sible in the dusk to discexm the features, but they appeared 
to be regular. The hair and eyes were dark, and with the 
red cloak and little cloth cap gave the wearer a rather gipsy- 


190 


TEE Wim OF AZRAEL, 


like appearance. Her vivacity of manner supported this 
effect. 

During the few seconds in which all this had passed, Viola 
stood perfectly motionless in her hiding-place. She was 
scarcely capable of movement, for there was a strong para- 
lysing pain at her heart. It was not figurative or poetical ; it 
was an actual physical pain, as if the stream of life, being 
blocked up, were struggling in vain for outlet. 

“ Harry, you don’t look weU! What is troubling you?” 

‘‘More things than one; but I want to hear about you. 
Tell me everything. You have haunted my thoughts as 
usual, Sibella. I don’t like these long partings !” 

“ Nor I,” she said; “but life is full of partings — perhaps in 
preparation for the last and the longest one of all. What 
was that?” She paused suddenly. “Did. you not hear a 
sound of footsteps over the stones?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“ Surely. Ah ! yes, I see a figure running along by the foot 
of the cliff! There, like a moving shadow against the 
white I” 

Harry also could see something that might be a figure. 

“ We must have been seen and overheard,” he said. 

“ The good people of Upton take a more than Christian in- 
terest in their neighbours,” observed Sibella with a laugh. 

“Confound them!” Harry exclaimed. “Well, I hope our 
eavesdropper was interested.” 

“/hope that she may catch cold,” said Sibella. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


CONSPIRACY. 

As the afternoon went on the wind began to rise, and the 
sea became perturbed as if with premonition of storm. 

Sibella shivered. 

“ It is going to be a wild night,” she said. “ Do you hear 
that ominous muttering in the sound of the sea, not loud, 
but deep and malignant? The wind is very keen and angry,” 
she continued, as Harry did not answer; “let us go home. I 
should like to show you my httle house in the wood ; it is so 
pretty and cosy.” 

They walked on quickly together. 

“Harry, I have often wished that your sister would come 
and see me; but of course she won’t.” 

“ I fear not,” said Harry, with a shake of the head. “ ‘ A 
mad world, Horatio!’ Adrienne,” he continued, “ is a woman 


CONSPIBAGT. 


m 


to go through fire and water at the call of duty? She has a 
theory ready-made to fit anything that happens, so that she 
and Fate stand obstinately confronted: they devour each 
other, tails and all ; while Adrienne, gradually diminishing, 
still cries out, ‘ Uncomfortable, but for the best.’ ” 

Sibella smiled. 

“ What hope have I of indulgence from such a woman? Or 
what hope has she,’’ said Harry, “of evading her own theo- 
ries? She belongs to that vast band who suffer from what 
I call the disease of words ; who are eaten up by words, as 
some wretched animal is devoured by parasites. Adrienne 
pronounces to herself (for instance) the word ‘ duty ’ or 
‘ right,’ and lets it fasten upon her soul and feed there as a 
leech.” 

“ Is it curable?” asked Sibella. 

“ Not when it is far gone.” 

“ Your sister?” 

“ Half her substance is already gone. Speak to her out of 
the fulness of the heart, and she baulks you with a loord. 
Try to vault over it, and you leave her far behind on the other 
side; she sits upon the partition and shaken ner head, and 
perhaps sighs. And that ends everything.” 

Sibella laughed a little sadly. 

“And the word that partitions us, she and I, is — respecta- 
hility. And I used to be so respectable !— there was reaUy 
something extra superfine about my respectability if she only 
knew it ; it was a respectability as of the Medes and Per- 
sians !” 

“Foreign virtue,” said Harry, “is unsatisfactory to the 
truly British mind.” 

“Say instinct,” she suggested. “ British mind is a phrase 
that seems to me too enterprising.” 

“I think you are pretty well,” he observed; “you don’t 
run amuck in this way unless you have some surplus energy ; 
you are only Quixotic when in good health.’’ 

“I haven’t been laughed at since I saw you last, except 
behind my back. It is quite refreshing! No, I am not well, 
however, in spite of my energy; and I have been very ill 
indeed in the summer. ” 

“ And you never told me!” Harry exclaimed reproachfully. 
“It was cruel to keep me in ignorance.” 

“Well, well, perhaps I won’t next time. No, I would 
rather not talk about it now; it’s a miserable subject. I 
thought I was going to die quite alone, without a word of fare- 
well to any one, and ” 

“Sibella!” 

“Don’t look so horrified; it is over; peace be to the past. 
Come back and see my home. Why do I keep you shivering 
here? And we can talk out our arrears by my study fire; 
such a dear little room, Harry, looking onto the sea, with a 
group of sighing pine-trees for the foreground.” 


m 


TEE WING OF AZRAEL. 


She led the way up the path by which she had descended 
to the beach, and the talk drifted on till they reached the 
house. A brown dog ran out to meet them, welcoming his 
mistress with a yelp of joy. 

“‘You see I have the dear old fellow yet,” said Sibella; “but 
he is getting very infirm. What a sad cruel world it is 1” 

Sibella led the way into a pleasant little room, where tea 
and toast and a friendly kettle awaited their coming. 

Books and work lay about, and there were sundry antique 
vases and glass bottles of strange shapes. 

“I see you still have your prehistoric things in bronze,” 
said Harry, standing by the fireplace while Sibella made the 
tea. 

“ What should I be without my mementi mori f I think 
of the feUow-man who fashioned these images, and I know 
that all is vanity.” 

“Tea is not vanity,” said Harry ; “tea is an eternal verity. 
I am sure Carlyle would admit that.” 

“In one of his paroxysms of silence,” added SibeUa fantas- 
tically. 

“ Sugar?” she inquired. 

‘ ‘ You have forgotten !” 

Sugar it must be, and many lumps,” she said; “he that 
takes no sugar, secure in the consciousness of innocence, says 
so boldly and at once.” 

“You have not asked me yet to do so, but I think I will sit 
down,” said Harry. 

Sibella laughed and pushed up a low chair before the fire. 

“Now, are the conditions of masculine amiabihty fulfilled? 
Stay I Buttered toast ! Some men become fascinating after 
buttered toast, though it is more generally indicated in the 
case of maiden ladies not without cats.” 

“Oh, please don’t do that !” Harry exclaimed, bending down 
to take the slice of bread which she was toasting. “You will 
be roasted alive. I want no buttered toast.” 

“But I want you to be amiable — go away, let me alone; I 
am happier than I have been for many a long day. It is the 
old instinct sprouting up again, of the woman to wait upon 
the man. That happens— a reversion to some hereditary 
instinct — to all of us. Hence our inconsistencies, which 
people throw in our teeth. Ah, the bread begins to steam, 
and to emit sweet odours. This, let me remark suggestively, 
is the stage at which the fiush of dawning amiability usually 
begins to appear— in an average patient.” 

Sibella’s was one of those races which indicate the high- 
water mark of human development. Thus far has man gone 
upon the path of progress ; thus far is he removed from the 
animal. Still, it was not the face of a saint ; for that, the 
smile was too brilliant and sometimes too mocking. 

“Why do you talk of everything but yourself, Sibella?” 


CONSPIRACY. 193 

asked Harry. “ I want to know how you like Upton, what 
you are doing, and whether you know anyone here.” 

“I like Upton exceedingly,” she said; “the neighbourhood 
is charming, and the sea — ah, the sea— that goes to my very 
heart ! But it is very tragic ; there is something tragic in the 
air of this place. I never felt anything before to equal it. It 
quite depresses me sometimes.” 

“You are as impressionable as ever,” said Harry. He 
seemed about to say more, but hesitated. 

“Do you ever see Philip Dendraith now?” he asked at 
length. 

“ Oh ! yes, he comes pretty often.” 

“I want to interest you about his wife,” said Harry. “I 
told you how I tried to save her from the marriage, and how 
I failed. She knows nothing of the world, she is extremely 
sensitive; judge for yourselt whether she is happy.” 

Sibella had risen and walked to the window. 

“ It seems almost as if this deadly oppression in the air of 
this place had not been without meaning. I wonder if the 
trouble of this girl could in any way have communicated it- 
self to me.” 

“ I think it is more than probable,” Harry returned. 
“Sibella, I have roused your sympathy; but I want more— I 
want your help.” 

“ My help ! what can I do ? 

“ I don’t know, but I want you to watch your opportunity. 
What you mean to do, you can do.” 

She gave a dissenting gesture. 

“How one must pay for one’s victories!” 

“Yes, we must pay for being stronger than one’s neigh- 
bours,” said Harry. 

She gave a long sigh. “One beats one’s way against wind 
and tide ; not for a moment daring to relax lest the current 
sweep back upon the hard-won way. At last, after a hard 
fight, a little temporary shelter offers itself for a moment’s 
breathing-space. Then come the friends crowding round, 
congratulating: ‘ How well you are placed! what a charming 
and convenient spot ! the shade, how grateful ! the sun, how 
warm ! truly. Fortune smiles upon you !’ What you win with 
your heart’s blood is counted to the gods.” 

“ If you are tired out, I have no more to say,” Harry re- 
joined,* rising and going to the fire. 

“Go on,” she said; “I speak one way and act another. 
You know me.” 

“ I know that when i)eople have had to fight and to suffer, 
they do one of two things— either they develop the instinct 
to push others back as they have been pushed back themselves, 
or they become eager to rescue and to warn. I thought that 
you would belong to the second class.” 

“You always think over highly of me; and at onetime- 
well, I was nearer to deserving it than I am now. I fear I 


194 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


have lost hope. The miserjr of people overwhelms me, sickens 
me. How can one rescue individuals who expiate the sins, 
against reason, of the forefathers of the race? It is all written 
in the book of Doom.” 

“ That is fatalism,” said Harry. 

Sibella paused and her eyes wandered out to the mournful 
fir-trees, themselves like Fates standing dominant over the 
fast-fading scene. 

“A woman brought up in such a way as to make her at 
once intensely sensitive and intensely conscientious is a ready- 
made martyr; nothing can save her. She is predestined.” 

Harry bent down and stirred the fire with vicious vehem- 
ence. 

‘‘I think women like Mrs. Sedley ought to be ” He 

smashed a large piece of coal into splinters by way of finish 
to the sentence. 

‘‘You ask me to help this girl?” Sibella continued; “ why 
not suggest that I should forbid to-morrow’s dawn? The 
whole machinery of doom is in motion; can I stop it? 

Harry felt himself grow cold. 

“ She is a woman; she is human,” he said. 

“She is the child of her generation,” returned Sibella. 
Conscience is the most tenacious of human attributes, pro- 
vided it has its root in prejudice. You can deliver a prisoner 
who will run when the gates are open, but what can you do 
with one who draws the bolts and turns the locks against Lis 
would-be saviour?” 

“If you will not help her, she has no helper upon tliis 
earth !” Harry exclaimed. 

“ I thought your sister was her friend?” 

“ My sister !” he cried impatiently. “She only chsers on 
the victim ; feeds her on a soft, warm, spongy sort of doctrine 
perfectly ruinous to one of her temperament. ” 

“ Are you unable to help her yourself, since you believe in 
the possibility of rescue?” 

Harry passed his hands through his hair, with a gesture of 
desperation. 

“ Her husband hates me and suspects me; I could not go 
to his house. Before their marriage I was his rival, his de- 
termined and obstinate rival. 1 thought on that day of the 
wedding, when I saw her standing there by his side, as if I 
must either break in between them and tear her away or go 
mad on the spot. I did neither, of course. I am capable 
of killing that man if I saw him ill-treat her.” He bent his 
head, buried in his hands, upon the table. “ I would die for 
her; I would commit a crime for her;— what do I care?” he 
went on excitedly. ‘ ‘ Her eyes haunt me day and night. I am 
desperate ! If only she would listen to me — if only she would 
leave him and come with me! We could do it if only she 
would I” 

Sibella looked at him with pity in her eyes. 


CONSPIUAGT. 


195 


“I know what you are thinking, though you don’t say it,” 
he cried, “ that still her fate would pursue her, making hap- 
piness impossible, because of the eternal visitations of re- 
morse. Yes, and I know it is damnably true. The curse is 
upon us to the end.” 

Sibella laid her hand tenderly on his arm, but made no 
immediate reply. 

A strong gust of wind that went sobbing round the house 
seemed like the wild and ^dmly sincere answer of the elements. 

She liad said that she believed in Fate, and her belief was 
strengthened as she stood mournfully by the side of the man 
who had been to her for the best years of her life a devoted 
and unswerving friend. What could she do to unravel this 
Gordian knot, tied and drawn tight by the force of genera- 
tions and the weight of centuries? 

Perhaps the wild melancholy in the sound of wind and 
wave, tlie dark loneliness of the swaying pine-ti*ees, uttered 
gloomy prophecies, and forbade the rising of the star of hope. 
Her knowledge of the force of emotion in this man made her 
tremble the more. 

“To have the capacity for extreme suffering in this best 
of all possible worlds,” she said bitterly to herself, “is to 
attract it ” She paused, deeply considering ; then she touched 
him on the shoulder quietly: “ Harry, I will do what I can.” 

He stretched out his hand and pressed hers without 
speaking. 

The silence continued for some minutes; the wind cannon- 
ading outside, and tearing and snarling in savage temper at 
every victim branch exposed by ill-luck to its fury. 

Sibella gave an excited shiver. From familiar association 
some favourite lines ran in fragmentary snatches athwart 
her hastening thoughts. 

“Pain, ah! eternal Pain ! 

I hear ^Eoliaii harpings wail and die 

Down forest glades, and through the hearts of men. 

Pain, pain, eternal pain !” 


She rose and walked restlessly to the window, and then 
back to the fire. 

“O Harry! why are you not a man of faint desires or 
half-developed nerves? Why are you not wise with the wis- 
dom of the world, taking things as you find them?” 

“I suppose our nature is on Fate, and can’t be evaded,” 
said Harry. 

‘ ‘ Then pray for a new nature, ” cried Sibella. ‘ ‘ The gods are 
cheats ! What is the use of giving us a commanding watch- 
word, an ‘open sesame,’ at which all doors flyback, if the 
eternal hunger is to be awakened by the splendour of our 
visions? Every human possibility is flung recklessly at our 
feet— just to show us that there is a green land and fair cities 
beyond the desert— the desert which we can never cross 1” 


196 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


There was a loud ring at the bell. Harry sprang up. 

“A visitor on such a night ! I will go.” 

“No,” said Sibella hastily. “You may get indirect help or 
information ; one must not neglect such chances. Stay, and 
keep your ears open.” 

The door was thrown back, and the maid announced : ‘ ‘ Mr. 
Dendraith.” 

One glance passed between Sibella and Harry, and then 
she went quickly forward. 

‘ ‘ How good of you to come on this wild evening, Mr. Den- 
draith ! You are indeed a chevalier sans peur ” 

“Don’t stop abruptly, Mrs. Lincoln!” exclaimed Philip. 

“ Oh ! no man wants to be sans reproche in the present day 
— it is not good form. Do sit down and warm yourself. You 
know Mr. Lancaster, of course? He too has come against 
wind and tide to break my solitude.” 

“What! Lancaster! — didn’t recognise you for the moment 
— a thousand pardons. When did you return to these deliri- 
ous parts? I don’t wonder you act the moth; our local lights 
are dangerously brilliant.” 

“Of course Mr. Lancaster has filial duties to perform at 
Upton.” 

‘ ‘ True,” said Philip. “ I hope you have found your mother 
and sister well. ” 

“Pretty well,” said Harry laconically. 

“ Making a long stay?” inquired Phiup. 

“That is undecided.” 

“ I fear,” said Philip, “ that you are rather a rolling stone 
— no stability. There is nothing that gives more weight to 
the character than a permanent address.” 

“Weight, but not charm,” put in Sibella; “for that one 
does not need the more solid virtues. Who ever loved a man 
for his punctuality, or his forethought, or his patience and 
perseverance ?” 

She had a bright fiush on her cheeks, and Harry saw that 
she was talking at random, to keep the conversation going. 

‘ ‘ I believe that Lord Chesterfield completely alienated the 
affections of his son, and that Madame de Sevigne made an 
enemy for life of her daughter.” 

“You seem to have made a judicious choice,” she observed, 
smoothing out the folds of her dress. 

Philip shrugged his shoulders. 

“A wife who doesn’t resent interference with her reading 
is a real treasure,” said Sibella. 

“She may resent it; but she has been well brought up.” 
Pliilip gave a laugh. “In point of fact, I fancy she felt she 
was devouring forbidden fruit, for she gave such a start when 
I caught her at it.” 

“I should suppose she would require some sort of occupa- 
tion,” said Sibella. “ Lifa can scarcely run on greased wheels 
anywhere in this parish,” 


CONSPIRACY. 


197 


“She has the house to look after,” said Philip, “and she is 
fond of her garden ; and then there’s calling and tennis, and 
don’t women spend a lot of time in fancy needlework ? She 
can have people to stay with her if she likes ; but she is not 
sociable; she seems to prefer to be alone; and of course I 
don’t want to insist in a matter of that kind. I am inclined 
to be easy-going, perhaps rather too much so.” 

“Perhaps,” said Sibella, with downcast eyes. 

“ I must be going,” said Harry abruptly. He would not be 
persuaded to wait for. the rain to cease. 

Sibella went with him to the front door. 

“ Come and see me to-morrow, if you can. I want to thrash 
the matter out with you. Keep a firm hold over yourself 
Avith — ” she threw back her head towards the study; “don’t 
let him guess that you are otherwise thj^n indifferent. I can 
see he enjoys your suffering; this is an enemy that mast be 
warily fought— he is keen and strong. Good-night, and good 
speed.” 

She hastened back to her guest. 

“ At last !” cried Philip. 

“ At last ?” she repeated. 

“ At last I have you to myself !” 

“As far as talking was concerned, I think you had that 
privilege from the beginning. ” 

Philip smiled. 

“ Our friend was not so talkative as usual; he didn’t quite 
appreciate my intrusion, I fancy.” 

She had established herself comfortably, with her feet on the 
fender, looking the picture of idleness. Now and then a little 
secret smile flitted across her face, as she listened to her com- 
panion's compliments. Philip drew his own chair closer to 
the fire, as he was bidden, keeping a pair of searching and ad- 
miring eyes fixed upon Sibella’s face. He wished to find out 
whether he had made any serious impression upon her, of any 
sort or kind ; whether he sufficiently interested her to remain 
in her thoughts after he left. This Avas always the unsolv^ed 
question in his mind. 

“I wonder sometimes,” Philip said, drawing his chair a 
little closer — “ I Avonder what Upton would be like if you were 
to leave it ?” 

Sibella’s head bent lower for a moment, and Philip saw a 
smile spreading over her face. 

“ I really don’t think it would be endurable!” he added in a 
low voice. 

“The value of property Avould go down,” she remarked. 

“Oh! but I mean seriously.” 

“So do I— very seriously.” 

“Mrs. Lincoln, you knoAv well how dependent I am upon 
you for ” 

“Amusement,” she said. “Yes, I know it well ; I study up 
old Punches so that you may not come to me in vain.” 


198 


THE WmG OF AZBAEL. 

“I come to you for something more than this — ” 

He watched her face keenly for something that might en- 
courage him to go on, but the motionless attitude, lowered 
eyes, and the slight smiles— like wandering tires, playing round 
her lips,— told him nothing. 

He was too wary to venture more. He knew that he had 
expressed his meaning, but not so definitely that she could 
openly resent it, if her mind lay toward resentment. 

There was a long pause. 

“The elements are conspiring in my favour,” said Philip, 
when presently a heavy gust shook the window. “ My visit 
is long beyond all hope of indulgence, but of course there is 
the storm. Were it beticeen instead of around us, I should 
treat it with little respect.” 

“You seem to confound me and the storm in your imagina- 
tion,” said Sibella, looking up for a minute. 

“Ah! how can you say that? Have I not waited long 
enough? Have 1 not obej^ed your merest hint and wish? 
Have I not again and again been silent when I longed to 
speak ?” 

She gave a little shudder. 

“We will not pursue this subject,” she said. “There are 
things which appear to us under aspects so different that we 
have no common language in which to discuss them. In so 
far as you mean and feel disrespect, I bitterly resent every 
word you have uttered. Don’t protest. You are a man of 
the vrorld, and think of these things as men of the world 
thhik of them. That is enough for me. You don’t under- 
stand ? No, and you can’t.” 

Philip frowmed. 

“I must hav^e further explanation ; it is my right.” 

She shook her head. He came towards her eagerly. The 
excitement of the experiment was near to carrying him away, 
cool-headed as he was. 

She broke out into a laugh. 

She too had been trying an experiment, and the result 
entertained her. 

Philip looked angry. He felt that he had made a miscalcu- 
lation ; the affair had drifted on to a wrong footing— drifted ? 
Had it not been skilfully guided by Sibella, whose will quietly 
and subtly opposed his, "deliberately blunting the point of the 
episode to w^hich he had been leading up ? 

He v/as puzzled and amazed. 

“It’s that fool Lancaster!” 

He felt too angry to stay longer, especially as Sibella was 
looking exasperatingly amiable. 

“ I fear I have outstayed my welcome,” he said, taking her 
hand; “perhaps some other day, when you have not had a 
more attractive visitor, you may treat my poor feelings with 
less disdain.” 

She laughed a little and said politely that she never treated 


THE HUMAN COMEDY. 


199 


anybody’s feelings with disdain, least of all Mr. Dendraith’s. 

“Oh, that’s mere arabesque !” cried Philip ; “ I would prefer 
frank impoliteness.” 

“Only a bear could be impolite to a Lord Chesterfield!” 
was her parting remark. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE HUMAN COMEDY. 

The elements had stormed themselves tired. With the 
dawn came a slowly growing peace, and the sun rose over a 
sea still perturbed, but with the movements of a past agita- 
tion, no longer with the riot of present passion. 

All the changes of the night Viola could have described, 
detail by detail. She lay in the great carved bed listening to 
the roar of wind and wave, following with terrible wide- 
awake intentness every rise and fall m their voices, every 
shift from boom to shriek, from blasphemy to lamentation, 
as with a bafified drop the sea-gusts swerved from the Castle 
w.il, and went searching and blustering among the trembling 
battlements. As the storm grew less violent, the wind seemed 
to be playing hide-and-seek through the windows — through 
that window where Philip had fallen so many years ago. It 
was always on these wild nights that the memory returned 
to haunt her most persistently, and to remind her of the 
wickedness that lay at the bottom of her heart, ready at any 
time to rise in volcanic rebellion against principle, against 
conscience, against all the faithful teachings of her child- 
hood. 

The discovery that she had made on the beach this after- 
noon was creating intolerable pain. Yet, what business had 
she to care about Harry Lancaster’s love affairs? 

But the pain throbbed on none the less, corroding with 
ruthless appetite. It seemed as if by morning her very heart 
must be eaten away ; and then, thank Heaven ! there would be 
nothing more to suffer ! 

In the bewilderment of stormy night-thoughts, she half be- 
lieved that the dawn would really find her calm and insensi- 
ble. 

When the first signs of it crept about the room, she rose 
and looked out, leaving Philip safely asleep. 

The sea was bleak and wan. 

“ By the lone shore 
Mournfully beat the waves.” 


200 


TEE WING OF AZRAEL. 


’ rning, promising well for a day of rest 



Kneeling by the half open window, her dark hair flowing 
about her with an abandonment that she never permitted to 
her own heart, Viola leant her head upon her hands and prayed. 
As her eyes fixed themselves upon the point in the grey sky 
where the flush of dawn had just appeared, there rose an un- 
concions worship in her soul for that coming sun, at whose 
glance the dead waters awoke rejoicing, crying aloud at the 
glory of their resurrection. 

The scene was one of deep religious significance to Viola; 
her soul wrestled in prayer, soared in adoration to the God of 
Nature, whose works, so great and fraught with terror, were 
yet so marvellously beautiful. 

Her own grief appeared not less bitter, but more bearable, 
since they were imposed by the hand of the All-powerful, 
who had promised to lead His obedient children safely through 
the darkest places, would they only have faith in Him. It 
was but for a little while, and then rest. Viola had been so 
often tempted to cry out in her misery, “Why this trial, of 
all others?” but to-day she thought she undej'Stood that it 
had been inflicted just because it alone seemed quite intolera- 
ble to her, because through it alone could her soul be purified 
in the agonising passage through fiery gulfs of humiliation. 
The shame of conscious sin was not spared her; she was 
doomed to look into her own soul and see there— struggle as 
she might— a guilty love for one who was not her husband, a 
man who had done his utmost to lead her away from the 
path of obedience, and who- God forgive him!— had made 
her waver in secret with the awful force of the temptation. 

Perhaps the tempest that had raged within her all through 
the night had left her exhausted in mind and body, and there- 
fore the more ready to be touched by the optimistic influ- 
ences of sunrise over a calming sea. It seemed to her as a 
distinct message; the gentle yet spirited little waves, foam- 
crowned and tinged with the splendour of the morning, 
brought tidings of peace as they rolled in, each with a little 
sigh, upon the shore. 

When at last Viola turned from the window, prepared to 
take up the burdens of the day, there was a look on her face 
such as is seen sometimes on the faces of the dying— very 
calm, beautiful, and unearthly. 

Philip was in one of his most biting moods this morning: 
everything seemed to annoy him; every incident was the 
signal for a sneer, or for some remark that to Viola was 
worse than any sneer. 

Cold-hearted people, with little ideality, are almost invari- 
ably coarse ; and Philip's coarseness— though he knew how to 
conceal it when convenient— had attained a high stage of de- 
velopment. This morning, after various remarks that Viola 
felt on their way, and dreaded as if they were blows, Philip 


THE HUMAN COMEDY. 


201 


fell to talking about Harry Lancaster. He alluded to his 
former conduct in no measured terms, and informed his wife 
that he had now turned up> again and was philandering at the 
heels of Mrs. Lincoln, the improper but agreeable young per- 
son who had become tenant of Fir Dell. 

It was well lie had transferred his attentions to this lady, 
as Philip had no notion of having the fellow loafing about 
this place on any pretext. 

“We shall probably be meeting him now and then at peo- 
ple’s houses, and I wish you to let him see clearly that my 
wife is a different person from Richard Sedley’s daughter.” 

“I hope that I know what is fitting for your wife,” said 
Viola, who was all the more ready in her present humour to 
allow her individuality as a woman to be swallowed up in 
her wifehood and daughterhood. 

When she went upstairs to dress for church, the thought 
that Harry might be there filled her with unrest. 

Would he see her? Would he speak to her? and if so, in 
what manner? Would it be distant? or with the old ring in 
his voice which meant so much? 

When Philip and his wife entered, the school-children and 
labourers were in their places, and a few of the farmers, as 
well as Mrs. Evans, and the party from the Rectory. 

The brilliant morning light fell in slanting beams across the 
building, and through the Norman windows inattentive wor- 
shippers might watch the trees waving in the wind, or white 
clouds sailing across the sky. 

The pew belonging to Upton Court was in the chancel: 
thither with echoing footsteps marched Sir Philip, following 
in the humble wake of Lady Dendraith in purple silk and 
bonnet tilted to one side in a rollicking fashion, of which the 
innocent wearer was quite unconscious. 

To Viola’s surprise, Geoffrey— now returned from his year 
at Sandhurst— appeared, and made for his sister’s pew. 

“ Have you walked?” she whispered. 

“Across country ! -dead beat — couldn’t stand Sunday at 
home— the Mother’s laying it on hotter than ever — the Gov- 
ernor simply intolerable ! Look at my boots !” They betrayed 
recent contact with mother-earth. “Came through all that 
to get away— wouldn’t have let me go if 1 hadn’t said I was 
coming to church.” 

“ I’m glad you have come,” said Viola. 

Geoffrey kept up a running commentary on the people as 
they came in : “ Caleb Foster! What does he come to church 
for?” 

“ For the same reason as every one else here present,’’ said 
Philip: “ to propitiate Mrs. Grundy.” 

“ I come to propitiate my mother,” said Geoffrey in a stage 
whisper. 

“Mrs. Grundy masquerading,” said Philip; “a man never 


202 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


pays her so much attention as when she speaks through his 
mother, or his sister, or his cousin, or his aunt !” 

‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Pellett! Hurrah!” exclaimed the excitable 
youth, hoarse from speaking sotto voce. 

Mrs. Pellett wore a bonnet which alone might have been a 
passport into heaven, if proved indifference to the pomps and 
vanities will take one there. But clearly Mrs. Pellett had no 
notion of trusting to her head gear alone for a chance of ad- 
mission ; her expression, as she walked up the aisle, was un- 
surpassable, to say nothing of her books of devotion, w’hose 
size was prodigious. Her white-headed husband slowly fol- 
lowed. Among his books the old scholar was happy and at 
home, but out in the light of day, among a host of staring 
fellow-creatures, he felt bewildered. The smallest boy in the 
school might have bulhed Mr. Pellett outside the walls of his 
study. His wife’s signs to get out the books confused him, 
and made him shift his hat from one place to another, knock 
down the umbrellas, and finally propel the entire body of vol- 
umes full tilt against his wife when she was kneeling for pre- 
liminary prayer. There were few hearts in that church which 
did not leap with joy at the sight 1 

Dorothy Evans was visibly enraptured. 

The Clevedon party arrived next, with several visitors — 
among them Arabella— and finally Mrs. Dixie appeared, fol- 
lowed by Adrienne— Viola held her breath— but, not Harry! 

Why did he stay away? Had he gone to Mrs. Lincoln’s? 
Was she keeping him from church? 

The whole place seemed to have grown suddenly dark and 
bleak ; how cold the pillars looked, how hard and rough the 
stone-work; how repellently uninteresting the faces of the 
people, how horribly ugly Mrs. Pellett’s Sunday bonnet ! 

Mrs. Dixie and Adrienne caught Viola’s eye, and Adrienne 
smiled across at her. 

The congregation rose, and the service began. 

Viola heard the familiar words rolling out, and heaved a 
sigh of something between relief and desperation. She looked 
round at the bent heads of the labourers, dull, patient crea- 
tures, bowing under the yoke of toil all through the week, and 
trooping on Sundays to praise the God who so ordered their 
soul-destroying lives. Yet it was with a sense of envy that 
Viola studied the vacant, bucolic faces. 

She tried to follow the service as usual, but her thoughts 
were too quick, her heart too disturbed. She found herself 
absently turning over the leaves of the great Bible. The first 
words that attracted her attention were : 

“ So I returned and considered all the oppressions that are 
done under the sun ; and behold, the tears of such as are op- 
pressed, and they had no comforter, and on the side of the 
oppressors there was power, but they had no comforter.” 

Always the tiny white clouds flitted merrily across the 


THE HUMAN COMEDY. 203 

little stage formed by the arch of the window opposite, and 
through it danced the light of the spring morning. 

“I will sing of mercy and judgment; unto Thee, O Lord, 
will I sing !” 

The people, in a slow, toiling manner, beat out the words of 
the Psalm. Viola felt heart-sickened and bewildered. Things 
spoke with many voices ; there was a confusion of tongues ; 
life was hedged round with mysteries, black as midnight; yet 
out of every gulf came some lightning-flash, quivering for a 
moment through the rolling vapours of darkness. 

“The Lord executeth righteousness and judgment for all 
that are oppressed,” sang the industrious people. Geoffrey, 
who was not musical, Avandered about tentatively among the 
lower notes; but came out enjoyingly with the verses: 

“I am like a pelican in the wilderness; I am like an owl of 
the desert : 

“ I Avatch, and am as a sparrow alone upon the house-tops.” 

The picture of the forlorn sparrow seemed to attract him 
irresistibly. 

What a medley it all was of the comic, the pathetic, the 
dull, the commonplace, and the tragic— a world in miniature! 

By this time Lady Dendraith’s bonnet had slipped so hope- 
lessly out of position that Sir Philip rashly interfered, causing 
her to lose her bearings altogether, and reach a state of con- 
fusion in which he vA^as powerless to help. There seemed to 
be no method in the madness of that bonnet, no apparent 
claim in any part of it to be more to the front or to the back 
tlian in any other part — a fatal difficulty in a headgear with 
Avhose geography one is not familiar. 

Lady Dendraith spoke piteously of an aigrette as a land- 
mark, but Sir Philip refused to investigate, with the usual 
impatience of husbands. The bonnet kept the schoolboys 
and Geoffrey happy for the rest of the service, and gave the 
old lady a severe qualm of dismay Avhen she went home and 
consulted the glass. She looked like an elderly Bacchante 
just home from a revel ! Meanwhile, she settled herself in a 
dark corner, and went decently to sleep. 

The text of the sermon Avas from the Book of Job (Lady 
Dendraith gave a peaceful sigh when it Avas given out). The 
Aveary, passionate Avords thrilled through the shadows of the 
church, and every heart that knew suffering stirred respon- 
sively. Job, cursing the day of his birth, longs to be “where 
the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” 

“Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life 
unto the bitter in soul, Avhich long for death, but it cometh 
not, and dig for it more than for hid treasures, Avhich rejoice 
exceedingly, and are glad, vffien they can And the graA^e?” 

Mr. EA^ans undertook to show that Job’s sentiments AA^ere 
reprehensible ; that in no circumstances is the human creature 
of God justified in desiring to CAnde the trials that He has 
appointed. “We must bov/ to the will of Heaven Avithout 


204 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


repining ; we must accept, we must even welcome the trials 
that come to us, though we may be stricken by disease, and 
lonely and deserted as Job was. Resignation is the lesson of 
life and religion.” 

“It may be, my brethren, that we fancy ourselves better 
able to understand what is good for us than our Heavenly 
Father who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” 

Several shepherds in the congregation here felt the fatal 
opposition between religion and science ; boisterous weather 
having set in immediately after the shearing on more occa- 
sions than one that they could mention. “We know that 
more will not be.given to us than we can bear,” Mr. Evans 
pui-sued, and his robust and prosperous appearance seemed to 
justify the opinion, though a glance at his worn, grey -looking 
wife might have bid him pause before making so sure of liis 
doctrine. 

Mr. Evans preached for about twenty minutes, and in that 
time he had succeeded in reducing to commonplace the utter- 
ances that have come ringing down to us through so many 
ages, fresh and hot from the soul of One who cried in anguish 
of body and anguish of soul. 

As soon as the sermon was over, the organ began to fill the 
church with ti’iumphant strains; the old clerk set open the 
doors, disclosing a view of the sunlit church-yard. 

As the worm-eaten side-door was filing back Viola caught 
sight of two figures among the graves— those of Harry Lan- 
caster and Mrs. Lincoln. 

Ml'S. Lincoln had on a blue cloak and hat of the same colour, 
on which was twined a wreath of real ivy. She was sitting 
on the side of a flat tomb, and Harry stood beside her, lookiiig 
down. They were engaged in earnest conversation. Viola 
thouglit she had never seen so attractive a face. How could 
a bad woman look like that ? There was something in her 
G.x;pression that filled Viola with an astonished belief that this 
woman might be implicitly trusted. 

As the notes of the organ poured through the open doors, 
Sibella rose, and she and Harry strolled away together, as if 
to avoid encountering the people when they came out. 

The church-door was the scene of many greetings. 

Every one except Lady Clevedon said, “ What a lovely morn- 
ing F unless he remarked, “What a gale there was last 
night !” 

Dorothy and Mrs. Pellett waylaid Viola. 

“Good-morning, Mrs. Dendraith; I hope you are feeling 
better than you look ?” 

“Oh, much !” Geoffrey answered for her. “Your dear 
mother is feeling very anxious about you, my dear,” 

“ Thanks to j our kind interest in my sister,” said the irre- 
pressible one. “ My mother has scarcely had a wink of sleep 
for three weeks.” 

The rector came forward and f hook hands all round. 


THE HUMAN COMEDY. 




“Mr. Evans, I congratulate you on your sermon,” 
cried Mrs. Pellett. “ It was excellent — so sound.'’’* 

Mr. Evans smiled and bowed deprecatingly. “ Well, well, 
I trust that — that it was sound ; I have always endeavoured 
to— to— in short, be sound. There is so much that is to be 
regretted in these days as regards— in fact, soundness. 
Charming morning, Mrs. Dixie, and what a gale we had last 
night ! By the way, I hear I have to congratulate you on 
the unexpected return of your son.” 

“Yes, we are indeed glad to have the dear fellow back 
again.” 

Viola was greeted effusively by Arabella. How long it was 
since they had met ! She really must try and get over to see 
Mrs. Dendraith ; but so much always went on at Clevedon. 
There was to be a large gathering there on the 12th— every- 
body invited. And so that dear Mr. Lancaster, whom 
Augusta was so fond of, had come back 1 Had Mrs. Dendraith 
heard of it? 

Mrs. Courtenay’s sharp little brown eyes, fixed upon Viola’s 
face, were like two gimblets. 

Yes, Mrs. Dendraith had heard of it from her husband. 

“ You have not seen him yet, I suppose?” 

The moment was a crucial one for Viola, to whom an un- 
truth seemed almost impossible. Perhaps Arabella saw that 
she was perturbed, and scenting a mystery, perhaps an im 
proper mystery (Oh, joy of the properl), she pinned her dear 
Mrs. Dendraith unwarrantably to the point. 

“You have seen Mr. Lancaster, perhaps? I hope he is 
looking well ?” 

“ I hear that he is,” said Viola. 

“ Oh, then you have not seen him ?” 

This was cruel. “Yes, I have seen him,” said Viola at last, 
in desperation, not perceiving any loophole of escape. But 
nothing could induce her to continue the conversation. She 
plunged after husband and brother in the hope of per- 
suading them to leave. But when she appealed to Geoffrey, 
Arabella bore down upon Philip. 

“Charmed to meet your wife again, Mr. Dendraith,” said 
Arabella, with one of her most irresistible wriggles. “I am 
always accusing Fate for her unkindness in putting fourteen 
miles between our houses.” 

“ Nobody can regret that more than I do,” returned Philip. 

“ O Mr. Dendraith! you are as bad as ever I” 

“I fear that in your society I shall become considerably 
worse*,” he rephed. 

“Dear, dear, what will your wife say if I let you go on 
like this ? Is she a jealous person ? I really hope not, for 
she would have much to suffer. You don’t know what it is 
to be jealous, I am sure. How nice that must be !” 

“ It is,” said Philip. 

“You are a spoils child of Nature, Mr. Dendraith — all the 


206 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


gilt without the gingerbread — no, I don’t mean that quite— all 
the plums without the cake ! No, that won’t do eitner — but 
you know how excellent are my intentions! Now, haven’t 
you some Upton news to tell me — somebody has surely died, 
or got married since I left? I hear that charming creature, 
Mr. Lancaster, has returned — quite the pet of the village, 
isn’t he?” 

“ Oh quite 1” said Philip. 

“ Your wife tells me he is looking so well ” 

Phihp gave a slight movement of the eyebrows. “Nobody 
heard of his arrival till last night, ” he observed. 

“Eeally! And yet I thought she told me that she had 
met him — a mistake, no doubt, on my part.” 

“If you never made a mistake of graver importance, Mrs. 
Courtenay, you have my sincere congratulations.” 

“Now, Arabella,” interposed Lady Olevedon, “you have 
chattered long enough ; Philip, I want you and Viola to dine 
with us on the 12th; will you?” 

“Charmed,” said Philip; “let me see — the 12th. No, I 
have nothing on the 12th.” 

“We have some people coming— a good many of the neigh- 
bours; and there are one or two staying in the house who 
can sing and play, so we shall have some music. If you can 
perform, bring your instrument.” 

“ The big drum,” said Philip, — “it shall accompany me.” 

Geoffrey returned with his sister and her husband for 
luncheon. On the way, they fell to discussing Harry Lancas- 
ter’s sudden return. 

“ It must he just over two years since you saw him, Viola,” 
said her husband. She did not answer. 

“ Or is it longer? The last time was at our marriage — ” 

“Oh! if you’re going in for dates,” cried Geo&ey, “I 
shall put cotton wool in my ears. I know no subject more 
deadly uninteresting. Let us not recall the past.” 

“It has been said that no man would willingly react his 
part in it,” Philip observed. 

“Certainly no woman would !” Viola said under her breath. 

“ Arabella seems in good form, tricky as ever! Adorable 
Arabella !” 

“ Grinning idiot!” exclaimed the irreverent Geoffrey. 

‘ ‘ She has a graceful habit of putting her foot in it, which I 
cannot enough admire,” pursued Philip, with one of his short, 
sudden, voiceless laughs. “ She cheerfully informed me to- 
day that Viola had already seen Harry Lancaster, and thought 
him looking well. As Viola had heard of his arrival only 
this morning from my own lips, I was obliged to reprove 
Arabella for inaccuracy.” 

“ What on earth put it into her head that Viola had seen 
him?” cried Geoffrey. 

“ Arabella’s is not a head that I should like to have to ac- 
count for,” returned Philip, watching his wife’s face furtively. 


THE HUMAN COMEDY. 


207 


She was very pale. 

“What had you been telling her, Viola?” cried her brother. 
“ You know it won’t do to let a woman like Mrs. Courtenay 
go about saying that you have seen Harry Lancaster before 
anyone else had heard of his arrival. It doesn’t sound well.” 

Philip’s cat-like instinct found full indulgence this after- 
noon through Arabella’s communication. Nearly, but not 
quite, Viola found herself a hundred times confronted with 
the alternative necessities of telling a falsehood and confess- 
ing where and how she had seen Harry. To admit it thus 
late in the day, implying the previous concealment was dis- 
tasteful. On the other hand, Viola thought it probable that 
Philip had 7iot really believed Mrs. Courtenay to be inaccu- 
rate, and that he now amused himself by this slow torture of 
his wife, whose secret was no longer hers to keep. 

“Upon my word, Viola,” said Geoffrey, with an air of 
worldly wisdom worthy of his promised moustache, “I must 
take an opportunity skilfully to put Mrs. Courtenay right 
about that matter. Lancaster used rather to dangle after 
you before your marriage, and there’s nothing too ridiculous 
for people to say.” 

They had just arrived at the house, and were standing at 
the front door, when Viola was seized with a frantic impulse 
to turn from that great iron-bound portal, and run away, no 
matter whither, so only that she need never again cross the 
threshold. A strong excitement held her — it seemed that her 
one chance of averting some hideous catastrophe lay in the 
desperate act of immediate flight; it was hers to decide upon 
it now, or to follow the fatal path to the end. 

A wild idea that she might go to Harry even flashed across 
her. 

The hot sun pouring down upon the gravel and on the grey 
stone steps darted madness into her brain (or was it supreme 
wisdom?). 

Why, she asked herself wildly, did God forbid His forsaken 
children, whom he had permitted to be degraded, to wash 
out stains and memories unendurable, in the waters of Death? 
Why did he force them to return to be tortured anew with 
indignity heai>ed on indignity? 

The sunshine was blinding. Viola put out her hand to 
steady hei’s^lf against the stone balustrade, for she was 
faint and slightly swaying. She gave a terrified start ! 

“ Ah ! pitiful (Tod!” she dared not cross that threshold, for 
there was blood upon it ! Yes, blood ! a stream which seemed 
to be coming from the house, oozing slowly under the door, 
stealthily moving forward to the steps till it dripped, dj*ipped — 

“By Jove, Philip! look out— quick! lend us a hand; Viola 

fcVlTltj0Cl 

And so across the threshold, over the phantom blood stream 
which she alone had seen upon the doorstep, the unconscious 
burden was carried into the house, 


208 


THE Wi:^'Q OF AZBAEL. 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 


A DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCE. 

When Viola regained consciousness she was lying in bed. 
Mrs. Barber, with a portentous array of eau-de-cologne and 
sal-volatile bottles, stood over her, looking unutterable woe. 
She fell to rubbing Viola’s hands, and to applying vast quan- 
tities of eau-de-cologne to her forehead. 

“Well, I am glad to see you restored, ma’am! I thought 
you was dead and gone, that I did 1 Permit me to apply some 
rnore eau-de-cologne just above the temples.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Barber; not any more at present,” said 
Viola, who was already sopping just above the temples, in 
consequence of the housekeeper’s aniiiable enthusiasm. “ If I 
might have a dry handkerchief— the eau-de-cologne is run- 
ning into my eyes.” 

“I expect the walk was too long for you,” Mrs. Barber 
continued; “ on a hot day like this, too! I never did think 
these long walks was quite conducive.” 

Viola longed to lie back and rest and be silent, but Mrs. 
Barber talked on till at last Philip and Geoffrey came up, and 
the housekeeper retired. “ All right now, Viola?” 

“ Yes, I am better,” she said. 

“ Harry Lancaster has been calling,” said Geoffrey, “but we 
thought it better not to let you come down to see him. He 
was sorry to hear of your not being quite well to-day.” 

“Oh !” She seemed but little interested. 

“And he was sorry to miss seeing you — and other things 
polite. I don’t think he looks well.” 

“ Are you going to get up again to-day?” 

“Yes, I am all right now.” 

Viola dreaded that as soon as Geoffrey left, Phihp ^vould 
speak to her about her meeting with Harry. But he did not 
mention the subject. Perhaps he despised the power of de- 
ception in Harry and herself too much to care to inquire 
further. But his watchfulness was incessant. 

The house seemed to stifle her; she hurried out and away 
across the gardens to the cliff-side pathway leading to the 
beach. The sea was just growing calm with the sinking of 
the wind, and gleaming with the mellow tints of the after- 
noon. There was a whisper of spring in the air; little white 
clouds overhead were carrying the sweet message from land 
to land. 

In a few minutes Viola was on the lonely shore, the waters 
sweeping to her feet. She lay against a long wave-like ridge 


A DANGEROUS ACQUAINTANCE. 209 

of pebbles, which the tide had flung up to stem their own ad- 
vance upon the land. 

At times of strong excitement the stream of feeling is not 
simple, but inflnitely complex. 

, Viola lay watching the overlappmg curves of the little 
waves that raced one another to the strand, watching the 
fret-work of foam spreading between ridge and ridge, and 
the brilliant reds and browns which the touch of water re- 
vealed in the “so seeming virtuous” pebbles, like the unsus- 
pected things that tears will summon forth in human hearts. 

“ Wave after wave for ten thousand years 
Has furrowed the brown sand here ; 

Wave after wave under clouds and stars 
Has cried in the dead shore’s ear.” 

Thus, for centuries before, the sea had beaten just as to- 
day on the crumbhng coast, and probably for centuries after 
would beat so, while the joy and the anguish of human souls 
came and passed away, as the shadow of a cloud over the 
sea, or as a tremor in some salt pool left by the resilient 
waves. 

When the human being fully realises how utterly it is swal- 
lowed and lost in the world’s Infinities, the moment is always 
vital and terrible, though it has been felt and described so 
many times before. True realisation seldom comes until, 
seeking in vain for help, the sufferer flnds himself shouting 
to a deaf Universe, and hears his own voice dismally echoing 
through the unending spaces. 

Viola, who had hitherto been shielded by religious teaching 
from this conception, felt the horror of it come upon her as 
she lay on the shore to day, overpoweringly. There was pain, 
look which way sh© would : pain in her own little world of 
being— exquisite, unbearable; pain in the thought of the vast 
soulless, indifferent Universe, a giant machine grinding on 
without haste and without rest. Where vrere the precious 
morning’s faith and peace? All gone; and in their place, 
doubts, hatred, disgust, wounded dignity, wounded affection, 
devouring anxiety; and over aU a consciousness that this hot 
emotion mattered nothing and availed nothing; that pres- 
ently the waves would be beating and retreating with only 
the cliff and the gulls for audience. Eeligion spoke warn- 
ingly, but the familiar voice was not heeded Viola, turning 
her face to the hard stones, broke into deep, silent, terrible 
sobbing. Some heart-string seemed to break with each sob. 

So stiU had she lain there, that the sea-gulls, cold-hearted 
birds, came sweeping close to her, and over her head. 

At length the crisis of passion arrived; the wave broke, and 
passed on. There was one tight, stifled cry, and then Viola, 
changing her attitude, fell into a sort of lethargy. She was 
dimly conscious of the stirring wind and the unresting sea- 
sound ; dimly conscious of the golden glow that began to light 


210 


THE WINQ OF AZRAEL. 


up the sky. The waves sounded hoarse and desperate. 
Deeper and deeper grew the blood-red stain upon the waters; 
and the land seemed to have caught fire. The swiftest cloud- 
streaks were overtaken, and their cool white turned to gold. 
At the wet wave-line upon the sands a figure clad in red was 
slowly strolling, stooping now and again with swift move- 
ment to snatch some feathery sea-weed from the tide. 

A large brown dog accompanied her, barking as she flung 
pebbles into the sea. 

Viola, lying exhausted against the ridge of pebbles, opened 
her eyes and beheld the animal standing beside her, dripping 
from tail, legs, and ears. 

But a voice recalled him. Viola started up. She felt that 
she ought to rise and flee from it ; it was the voice of a siren 
luring from the ways of righteousness. 

Sibella, turning to pick up a stone for her tyrannical dog, 
found herself face to face with Viola. 

Both women coloured deeply, and for a moment there was 
a silence. “ I beg your pardon for unknowingly disturbing 
you; I thought myself alone.” Sibella hesitated, coloured 
again, and then said, almost shyly : I have been very anxious 
for this meeting, Mrs. Dendraith (you observe this is not the 
first time I have seen you).” Viola, too excited and bewil- 
dered to know what she thought or felt, sat gazing at her com- 
panion in silence. 

Perhaps Sibella saw or divined her frame of mind, for she 
sat quietly down on the shingle by her side, and began to 
talk. 

She spoke simply, but with a subtle implication of com- 
radeship which touched Viola’s loneliness, as the glow of the 
fireside is welcome to one shivering and belated. Then, more 
fancifully, she spoke of the sea, of its perpetual variety, its 
endless range of expression and meaning. 

She went on to speak about the down country inland, con- 
trasting it with the tame fields and pastures among which 
she had spent her childhood and her married life. Viola grew 
interested, and the more Sibella told her the more breathlessly 
interested she became. Tnere was a strange resemblance to 
her own experience in the story that Sibella told. She, too, 
had been strictly bix)ught up ; she, too, had begun life with a 
store of “principles.” 

Before half an hour had passed, Viola was speaking as she 
had never spoken to human being before; her cheeks were 
flushed; her eyes burnt with excitement. The unwanted ut- 
terance had thrown a confused light upon her own emotions ; 
while the comments of her companion, flinging brilliant cross- 
flashes, frightened and allured at the same time. She could 
not turn her eyes away from the baleful glare, accounting it 
infernal as so short a time ago she would have done. She 
had gone through too much; reality and passion had touched 


A DAJ^OBHOrS ACQUAINTANCE. 211 

her, and left no choice but to turn and listen to one in whom 
reality and passion Avere free and unresisted agents. 

“ But what do you mean? I don’t understand; it turns 
things topsy-turvy to think so !” Viola cried with a sort of 
terror-stricken excitement. She stretched out her arm as if 
trying to grasp again the bulwarks of her creed. 

A firm, gentle hand was laid in hers: “ Don’t be frightened 
to open your eyes and to use your reason. If the creeds of 
our youth are true, they can bear the light. We have both 
been taught (as we imagined) to worship God ; I fear that we 
have really been taught to Avorsbip the Devil! We were 
trained to submission, to accept things as they are, to seiwe 
God by resignation— yes, even the resignation of our human 
dignity ; Avhereas the Devil laughs in his sleeve, and carries 
off the fruits of miserable lives to add to the riches of his 
kingdom.” 

“Oh 1 I can never believe so,” cried Viola. 

“No, Ave were both well-grounded,” said Sibella, “ but you 
are naturally more conscientious than I. The better the soil, 
the richer harvest for the Devil. I always questioned and 
doubted, though from force of circumstances I obeyed. But 
there came a crisis in my life, and then I broke loose. I don’t 
say it is a success ; a woman’s fife can never be a real success : 
but in refusing to submit to what Avas degrading, I have at least 

rescued myself from the unbearable self-loathing ” The 

speaker paused as Viola drew in her breath sharply. Sibella 
laid her hand upon her arm. “It is better to face things,” 
she said quietly. “I told you in what circumstances my 
marriage took place; you have not suffered quite alone. 
A mere child, brought up without knowledge of life, of my 
fellow-creatures, of the very laws and customs which were 
to rule my destiny, I shared the fate of thousands of our sis- 
ters, who are kept in a like ignorance. Everything in my 
surrounding was untrue, unscientific, groundless, fabricated. 
In my cramped, painful little world there AA^ere a thousand in- 
vented crimes, a thousand invented tortures; and in the close 
motionless atmosphere these things grew more monstrous 
and unwholesome every day. This process of education and 
subsequent marriage through which so many girls are made 
to go always reminds me of the torture that the Romans in- 
flicted upon one of their generals who had offended them: 
they cut off his eyelids, and then compelled him to sit in the 
blazing sun 1 I Avas asked to give my hand in marriage to a 
man whom I scarcely knew and for whom I cared nothing — 
a man who regarded women as his lawful prey. In a Avife he 
simply looked for a creature avIio would become his posses- 
sion, and the mother of his children. The family Avas eager 
for an heir. To provide one, and afterwards to devote to him 
my whole life and energies, Avas to be my sacred duty and 
privilege. ” 


212 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


Viola gave a slight movement, and Sibella tightened the 
grasp of her hand. 

“I, of course, did not understand all this ; but could I? My 
pastors and masters had twined garlands of poetry round the 
brow of the skull that they called “ woman’s destiny,’ they had 
exhausted the dictionary for terms to express its blessedness. ” 

“ You must think wrongly of it!” Viola broke out. “It is 
God- ordained. Don’t take that belief from me, .or I shall go 
mad.” 

“ You have lost that belief already ; I am not taking it from 


you.” 

Viola turned away, not denying. After a moment of silence 
she said, “ Please go on ; this has a terrible interest for me.” 

“ Well, I consented,” said Sibella. “ My parents must have 
known that the marriage was unsuitable; but they had 
brought up their daughter to be ‘ high principled,’ and they 
trusted to that to keep things ‘ stj’aight,’ and the ‘ family 
honour’ (as they humorously called it) intact. As a rule 
the method answers: society is founded upon the success of 
such arrangements, but in my case it failed. 

“ I ought not to listen,” Viola murmured. 

“ You ought to listen and then to judge,” said Sibella. “ The 
story is so pitifully obvious, and yet nobody sees it, or at 
any rate says it; and so the hoary old hypocrisies are kept up, 
the threadbare cant of which yet holds bravely together, and 
is thick enough to hide the truth from our crops of fresh 
young victims as they spring up year after year.” 

Viola pushed back the hair from her brow in a sort of des- 
peration. 

“ The average woman,” Sibella pursued, “ spends her ener- 
gies in making all these time-honoured social iniquities possi- 
ble and successful, encouraging the repetition of these profit- 
able old crimes. The fortitude and goodness of the victims 
are counted upon to ward off the natural punishment. It is 
for the victims to pay the price. They must do this, and 
keep silence, on pain of excommunication. If the fortitude 
breaks down, then what a hue-and-cry ! The wretched wom- 
an is hunted, scorned, ruined; there is no mercy.” Sibella 
turned to her companion: “ Are you going to make success- 
ful another of these villanies? "Are all women who come 
after vou to be heavier hearted because of you?” 

Viola half rose, as if to leave her dangerous companion; 
but she did not go.- As she w^as hesitating, there came a 
sound of footsteps on the shingle. 

She raised herself to look over the pebble-ridge. 

“Is any one coming?” asked Sibella. 

“ My husband,” she said. 

‘ ‘ Oh 1” Sibella’s expression had changed. ‘ ‘ He will be 
angry at finding us together— I quite understand it was my 
fault, if fault there be. Eemain passive. Say as little as you 
can, and keep as much as possible your usual manner,” 


A ACQUAINTANCE. 213 

He lifted his eyebrows slightly on seeing who his wife’s 
companion was. 

“Mrs. Lincoln! what fortunate star directed my steps 
towards this spot?” 

“ Then you are glad to find me here!” Sibella observed, 
looking up into his face with a singular smile. 

“Do you cast a doubt upon my good taste?” he inquired. 

“I cannot be guilty of that mistake, since meeting your 
wife.” 

“ I bow for us both,” returned Philip ; “ I never can get my 
wife to how for herself.” 

“She has an admirable model always before her eyes. I 
am lost in admiration of your bows. I wish you had lived 
in the last century.” 

“ Thanks,” said Philip; “ you would have been perfect in a 
minuette. Stateliness and grace has died out nowadays. 
Pardon me ” 

“Oh! this is ^oo much!” laughed Sibella. “My worst 
enemies have never yet called me stately! Graceful?” — she 
puroed up her lips and raised her eyebrows — “perhaps; I 
HAVE studied that a httle — but stately ! I should die in the 
attempt !” 

“You do not leave a bewildered creature time to catalogue 
your attributes, Mrs. Lincoln,” said Philip; ‘ he can only 
think of you as a delightful and dazzling whole.” 

“I am glad you don’t think me unfinished,” said Sibella. 
“ I am so delighted to have made Mrs. Dendraith’s acquaint- 
ance; one never really knows a man till one knows his wife. 
Mrs. Dendraith throws unconsciously a flood of light on your 
character. Most becoming,” she added. 

Philip’s lips looked rather tight about the corners, but he 
smiled, and said suavely: “ It is very kind of you to take my 
wife in hand, Mrs. Lincoln. To know jmu is a liberal educa- 
tion.” 

“As usual, you overwhelm me.” 

“If you stay much longer in this position I fear the sea 
will do that,” Philip returned. “Viola, my love, do you 
contemplate restoring the grace of your presence to my 
humble abode before nightfall?” 

“ I am ready to come now.” 

“Then my house will be a home once more!” he said, 
drawing Viola away to the side farthest from SibeUa. 

“Mrs. Lincoln, you will permit me to walk back with 
you?” 

“Thank you, no; I do not require an escort.” 

“ Once m"ore then, let me express my deep gratitude to you 
for having interested yourself so kindly in my wife.” He 
looked Sibella full in the face as he said this, holding out 
his hand. Laying hers in it, she returned the look point- 
blank, and replied with a little smile and bend of the head, 

‘ ‘ Please don’t thank me ; I feel myself so unworthy. Though 


214 


THE WINCf OF AZRAEH 


I am interested in all that c9ncerns you, my interest in Mrs. 
Dendraith has arisen quite independently of any such senti- 
ment, and your thanks weigh heavily on my soul, as ill-gotten 
treasure. Once more, Good-bye !” 

She turned with a last significant bow and smile, called her 
dog, and walked quickly away. 

“ Was this prearranged?’’ Philip asked. 

“No; accidental.” 

“Perhaps you had other fish to fry?” he suggested. 

She did not answer. 

‘ ‘ I need not observe that our fascinating friend is not fit 
society for you, my dear.” 

Although this had been Viola’s own opinion until this 
afternoon, she fiushed painfully. 

‘ ‘ You must intimate politely but firmly that you feel 
obliged to forego the pleasure of her further acquaintance. 
Better avoid the shore in the afternoons, as she seems inclined 
to make it a promenade. 

“What is she accused of?” asked Viola. 

“A mere friskiness,” returned Philip, “culminating in a 
trifling elopement, scarcely worth mentioning — Lancaster’s 
bosom friend Elliott was the happy man.” 

“Did she go away with him?” 

“ Well, no, she went away alone, but it is supposed that he 
followed her afterwards. Anyhow she did not break with 
him as a woman would have done in her slippery position. 
There was no divorce, of course ; but her character is gone. 
No woman can associate with her and keep her own in good 
feather. I wonder a young person of respectable instincts like 
you would be seen speaking to her. It must not happen 
again !” 

“ What has become of the man Elliott?” 

“Elliott? That is a delicate question, my dear. What 
does happen to men who run after other men’s wives? Scrip- 
ture is mute upon the subject. Elliott is now expiating his 
misdeeds in another, but, alas ! I dare not aflirm with con- 
fidence a better, world. Perchance he is doomed to a cycle 
of never ending flirtation under climatic conditions ex- 
tremely oppressive.” 

“ Is he dead?” asked Viola. 

“You are a trifle bald, my love, in your expression; say 
rather, ‘he has departed,’ ‘he has gone to another sphere,’ 
‘ he is at rest.’ Of course the last is rather euphonious than 
instructive.” ’ 

“ Has any one a right to condemn Mrs. Lincoln when her 
sin is only a matter of conjecture?” asked Viola. 

Philip shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Possibly not. I merely explain to you that to associate 
with her is to take the bloom off your own reputation, and 
I have no notion of a wife in that bloomless condition. 
Now I hope I have explained myself clearly, my dear. 


A TOUGH BATTLE. 


215 


Not a breath, not a whisper, shall go forth against the woman 
to whom I have given my name. Take care that you do 
nothing to give rise to it. You will see nobody, man or 
woman, without my knowledge; you will make no new 
acquaintance, man or woman, without my knowledge; you 
vviU receive no letter that is unseen by me; and now” — 
Pliilip held open the gate into the garden gallantly,— “ now to 
the home of which you are the Sunbeam.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A TOUGH BATTLE. 

SiBELLA sat in a low chair before the fire, with a blotting- 
pad and writing-materials on her knee, 

She had abandoned her ruddy-tinted gown, and wore a 
fashionably made dress of dark cloth neatly braided. Mrs. 
Russel Courtenay herself would not have felt unhappy in the 
attire. 

Several sheets of writing-paper lay on the table, each with 
the commencement of a letter abruptly abandoned. Sibella 
was now strugghng with another letter, writing a few words 
between long intervals of gazing into the fire. She wrote to 
the end of the first page, then with an impatient movement 
tore off the half sheet, crumpled it in her hand and threw it 
into the fiames. 

The next few minutes were spent in pensively sketching 
fabulous creatures on the edge of the blotting-pad, and writ- 
ing under them the names of common domestic animals. 
Sibella appeared to devote herself heart and soul to this 
occupation, looking at her sketch from this side and from 
that, adding brightness to the eye, and spirit to the tail, by 
means of deeply considered touches. 

The being under which she traced the letters DOG had a 
strange, square-looking jaw and an appalling grin; his tail 
when unfurled must have been available as a weapon at a 
distance of several yards, and along his backbone the hair 
stood up in a ridge, indicating a spirit sorely aggrieved. 
Facing this work of art was a creature of the panther order, 
thin and strong and agile, with a watchful eye, and a look of 
stealthy swiftness. 

Cinder this image the artist wrote, somewhat inconsequent- 
ly, “ Philip Dendraith.” 

“Dear Mrs. Dendraith: It will surprise and I fear dis- 
please you to receive 


216 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


“Deae Mrs. Dendraith: Please believe that lam actuated 
by a friendly spirit ” 

“Dear Mrs. Dendraith: Could you meet me to-morrow 
afternoon on the shore at three o’clock ? I want very much 
to ” 

Sibella pushed away the paper in despair. 

She placed her elbows on her knees, and supporting her 
chin on her hands, sat looking steadily into the fire. 

The front-door bell rang. 

“Ah ! if it were only that poor girl !” 

Sibella gathered together her papers and awaited the en- 
trance of the visitor. A maid brought a card. 

“The lady wishes to know if you could see her.” 

The shadow of a train of thought seemed to pass through 
Sibella’s eyes in the second of silence that followed. 

“ I shall be glad to see Miss Lancaster.” 

Adrienne, looking rather pale but very composed, was 
ushered into the room. 

Sibella had risen and bowed. 

“ I have to apologize for this intrusion,” began Adrienne. 

“ Please don’t apologize. Will you take a chair near the 
fire?” 

“Thank you ; I would prefer to avoid it; the wind is strong 
outside ” 

Adrienne sat down, wondering if there was anything in her 
manner to show that her heart was beating so hard that she 
could scarcely draw her breath. 

“ I think it well to plunge into my business at once,” she 
said when Sibella had drawn her chair facing her visitor and 
placed herself in a calm attitude of attention. 

“ Please do so.” 

“ I come on behalf of my friend Mrs. Dendraith.” 

“She has sent you ?” 

“Not exactly. Yesterday afternoon I called at her house, 
and found that she had just returned from a long interview 
with you on the beach. Mrs. Dendraith told me all that you 
had said to her.” 

Adrienne looked her hostess full in the face, as if she ex- 
pected her to fiinch from her righteous gaze. 

“ She told you all that I had said to her,” Sibella repeated, 
with the gleam of a smile in her eyes; “and what did you 
think of it ?” 

Adrienne fiushed with indignation. 

“Since you ask me, Mrs. Lincoln, I must confess that I 
think it is the most extraordinary, the most unprincipled 
advice that I ever heard in my life! I listened to Mrs. Den- 
draith in incredulous amazement. I know that you have 
long been ray brother’s friend, and therefore I have hitherto 
felt ready to believe well of you ” 

Sibella gave a little bow. 

“But when I hear that you not only hold such views your- 


A TOUGH BATTLE. 217 

self, but actually try to poison with them the innocent mind 
of a young wife, then I feel ” 

“ That the innocent mind calls for your protection. I ad- 
mire your championship and self-sacrifice. This interview 
must be painful to you.” 

“ I should have imagined that you might have felt it pain- 
ful,” said Adrienne with a gasp. 

“Oh no,” returned Sibella, politely, “ not at all.” 

The visitor was silent for a moment, collecting her energies. 
“ I came here to day to make an appeal to you, to rouse your 
sense of justice and mercy, to represent to you what a terrible 
injury you may do to that young wife. She is not happy, as 
a person of your penetration would quickly see. But she is 
supported by high principle; she is noble, she is self-sacri- 
ficing, she is pure; faith is her sheet anchor; I consider that 
any one who robs her of it, or shakes it by so much as a pass- 
ing doubt, is guilty of a cruel, of an accursed deed. ” 

Adrienne paused, breathless with disgust and anger. 

Mrs. Lincoln’s steady look was full of judicial attention, yet 
her expression was almost sympathetic. 

“ I have believed,” Adrienne went on, curbing her indigna- 
tion — “I have always believed that no human being is 
wholly devoid of good.” 

“Not even such as I, Miss Lancaster ?” 

“ Not if you will give the better impulses fair play,” Adri- 
enne returned severely, at which the other smiled. 

“O Mrs. Lincoln, if you had seen that poor girl yesterday 
as I saw her, you would not smile ! Jt was terrible. She 
came to me entreating and imploring that I would make her 
believe again ! that I would reconvince her of her own prin- 
ciples and of the love of God. Everything seemed to have 
gone from her — and it is t/ow, Mrs. Lincoln, whom she has to 
thank for this ! I wish you had seen her fling herself upon 
the sofa crying that she could not endure to live ; that she was 
lowered and humiliated forever; that it was intolerable to he 
herself! Of course it is a very morbid idea, but I cannot get 
it out of her. head.” 

“ Ah !” Sibella said quietly, “ to feel so is to endure the tor- 
tures of the damned.” 

“Are you quite heartless?” Adrienne exclaimed, bringing 
down her little clenched hand upon her knee; “have you no 
pity and no forbearance ? If you must have disciples, if you 
caret rest satisfied with flinging over every law of God and that 
on your own account, why, in the name of :^eason, must you 
pick out sensitive creatures to suffer in this dreadful way?” 

“You care for this girl very sincerely, I think,” said Sibella. 

“I would do almost anything for her.” 

“ It will surprise you when I say that I too would do almost 
anything for her.” 

“No, it does not surprise me ; nothing that you might say 
or do could surprise me any further. A woman who dares 


218 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


advise repudiation of her most sacred duty, to one so pure 
and sweet as Viola Dendraith, would hesitate at nothing.” 

There was a pause. 

“ You do not even defend yourself,” Adrienne exclaimed. 

“ Because, Miss Lancaster (to follow your excellent example 
of limpid sincerity*), I do not see my way to making you 
understand.” 

Adrienne bowed. “It is then owing to my inferior intel- 
ligence that I differ from you,” she said. “I never before 
felt occasion to bless my stupidity.” 

“Then your experience has not at all resembled mine,” 
Sibella answered. “I have blessed my stupidity again and 
again. When I am dead there vvill be found written on my 
heart, ^Blessed are the stupid, for they shail never be con- 
founded ” 

Her eyes were sparkling wickedly in spite of her cool man- 
ner; her words, quiet, pointed, swift to the point as hail- 
stones, stung as they fell. 

“Alas! you are not stupid. Miss Lancaster, if you will ex- 
cuse my saying so.” 

“ A compliment from you ” murmured Adrienne. 

Sibella gave a shrug. “A compliment from me is never- 
theless worth having,” she said. 

“I can bear your good opinion of my intellect, but for 
heaven’s sake don’t tell me you approve of my principles F 

“ I am not going to,” Sibella answered, “for I don’t.” 

They sat looking at one another, for a second, in silence. 

“ Am I to understand that you intend to pursue Mi's. Den- 
draith’s acquaintance?” Adrienne at length asked. 

“A question I scarcely feel called upon to answer,” said 
Sibella; “ but this I will say, that whatever seems to me to be 
best for your friend, that I shall do.” 

“ Perhaps you are not very well acquainted with her hus- 
band?” Adrienne suggested. 

“ I have had some opportunity of studying his character.” 

“ If so, you know what it means to oppose him.” 

Sibella bent her head. 

“ And that he has absolutely forbidden his wife to meet 
you or any one without his knowledge. ” 

“ Having appealed in vain to my better feelings, you now 
appeal to my fears,” said Sibella. “ Yes, I know all that.” 

“And you intend to measure your strength with his?” 

“He having on his side nine tenths of the law, to say 
nothing of his wife’s own conscience, and the powerful rJli- 
ance of high-principled friends, it is madness, is it not?” 

Adrienne looked at the speaker from head to foot. 

She was slight, graceful, soft in outline and in attitude. 
Her pose was rather indolent, though there lay in it a subtle 
hint of large reserve force. The face at this moment wore a 
peculiarly soft expression. 

In spite of her strong feelings of disapproval, Adrienne felt 


A TOUGH BATTLE. 


219 


interested; slie was vaguely conscious of something incom- 
prehensible in this unprincipled woman. Sibylla must be in- 
herently bad ; if a character failed to catalo^e itself under 
one’s own familiar headings, there was nothing but badness 
to account for it, — unless indeed it were madness. 

“Miss Lancaster,” said Sibella suddenly, turning her eyes 
from the sea, “it is childish for you and for me to sit here 
bandying words. That will not avail either of us, and we 
forget our sisterhood in foohsh opposition.” 

Adrienne did not appear to care to acknowleged the sister- 
hood. 

“But we are sisters,” Sibella pursued, answering the un- 
spoken thought; “we are separated only because we can’t 
see clearly into one another’s mind ; that is all. It is only 
dimness of sight that holds us back. You think of opinions, 
things social and things of rule, of names and shadows, and 
you turn coldly away and deny the common nature which 
makes us sisters against our will. We are one; we are 
human.” Sibella again turned her eyes seawards. “We 
stand shivering between two eternities; we came out of the 
darkness, and we see the darkness waiting for us a little 
way ahead — such a little way! and we have to pick our steps, 
among rough stones, and our feet bleed ; and we try to roll 
some of the stones away, and they are too heavy for us, and 
we are lonely, and the Place of Stones where tread is very 
bleak, and we cry out that we must have love and hope or we 
die. And Love comes, and our hearts leap up, and every 
stone at our feet breaks into colour, and every wave and 
every dew-drop gleams. And then a cloud comes into the 
sky, and Love goes away shivering, and with him go Joy and 
Sympathy, and Brotherhood hand in hand. But we yearn 
after him still, and we seek for him all our days. That is 
your story and mine, there is no real difference between 
them. Opinions, things of rule, haunt us like phantoms, and 
we bend the knee to them and let the incense that they 
swing before our faces mount to the brain and deaden it. 
And when, in our wanderings, we come across a fellow-strug- 
gler, the phantoms crowd around us and hold him off, saying: 
‘This creature is accursed; do not commune with him; us he 
refuses to acknowledge; touch him not, accost him not; he is 
no brother of yours,’ and we pass on, thinking ‘he is no 
brother of mine ’ while our hearts cry out for the brother- 
hood that we turn from. We want it, we droop and pine for 
it; but the Phantoms assure us that all is well, and we try to 
crush down our longings and march on obediently, phantom- 
led into the darkness.” 

Sibella paused for a moment and then went on in a tone 
still sadder : “ And each one has his life-struggle to go through, 
and death to face; each, with his attendant phantoms, must 
pass from mystery to mystery. Believe me, only the phan- 
toms hold apart soul from soul.” 


220 


THE Wijsro OF AZEAEL. 


There was a long silence. At last, Adrienne said with 
changed expre^ssion, “I suppose you will say that I am under 
the government of my phantoms.” 

“ As more or less we all are.” 

“Dou you acknowledge to that?” 

“ I ? I am under the influence of all things !” Sibella replied ; 
“no one more so.” 

Adrienne looked thoughtful, and after a moment she drew 
herself together. 

“I think, Mrs. Lincoln, that the differences between us have 
little to do with what you call phantoms. They are very real 
indeed. Our ideas seem to me to represent black and white, 
positive and negative, good and evil.” 

Sibella made no reply. She took up, in evident absence of 
mind, the pen that lay beside her on the table, and began to 
trace outlines on a scrap of paper. A procession of grim but 
shadowy forms followed close upon the heels of a more sub- 
stantial flgure, and from every side troops of shadows crowded 
up out of the dimness, in attitudes of command, or exhorta- 
tion, or entreaty, or sadness. Far away was a range of high, 
peaked mountains; but the shadows were very near and 
loomed large, so that only now and then, for a brief moment, 
could the human being, so close beset, catch a glimpse of 1 he 
eternal hills ; and when he did so, the vision was so strange, and 
new, and startling that he felt afraid or thought that he had 
gone mad. Then the shadows bent down comforting, and 
closed up their ranks till the vision was forgotten. 

Sibella looked up at last. 

“Tell me,” she said, “the doctrine that you hold, wherewith 
alone we can be saved.” 

“I am sorry that I can’t put my ideas of what is pure and 
right into a nutshell,” said Adrienne; “all I can say is that 
they are very unlike yours.” 

“Am I to understand, Mrs. Lincoln, that you intend to 
seriously attempt to lead Mrs. Dendraith to throw aside her 
duty and repudiate the ties that she has formed ?” 

“ That have been formed /or her, let us say for the sake of 
accuracy.” 

“Excuse me,” said Adrienne, “but in this country no 
woman can be teced to marry against her will.” 

“Wide is the infernal kingdom, and perfect its govern- 
ment! You do not know the story of Mrs. Dendraith’s girl- 
hood and marriage.” 

“ Whatever her story may be, I cannot see that any hard- 
ships, or any other person’s faults, can justify her in evading 
tftie simple laws of right and wrong, merely because they 
happen to press her rather closely.” 

“Nor do I see,” returned Sibella, “that the daily unpun- 
ished sins of society against its women should continue to be 
expiated by their victims instead of their perpetrators ! This 
girl has suffered more in a coupl® of years tnan her amiable 


A TOUGH BATTLE. 


221 


father could suffer in a lifetime. Let him suffer now ; it is 
iiis turn.” 

“ Then you would advise her to leave her husband and dis- 
grace hor family.” 

Sibella drew a long breath. Adrienne watched her in- 
tently. 

“And her good devoted mother !— is she not worth to be 
considered ?” 

“ Her good devoted mother sacrificed the girl, open-eyed, in 
the name of all that is sacred. It is interesting to rememl3er 
that Druid priests used to cram great wicker images with 
young girls and children, and then set fire to them — also in 
the name of all that is sacred. ” 

“ What has this to do with what we are speaking of ?” 

“ History repeats itself,” said Sibella; “ no doubt any inter- 
ference with those sacrificial rights would have greatly 
pained a sincere and ‘conscientious’ Druid, but I confess 
that I should quite cheerfully inflict upon him that pain if I 
could thereby save the imageful of victims, even if he re- 
garded his honour and the honour of his whole family as for 
ever sullied. ” 

“You scoff, then, at family honour.” 

“I confess,” said Sibella, “that I am not very tender 
about the honour that nourishes itself on the fortitude and suf- 
ferings of others.” 

I fear appeal to you will be in vain. You fling over, with 
a light heart, the creeds and the traditions of centuries, all 
that our forefathers have taught us, all that our mothers 
have prayed and suffered for. For my part, I am old-fash- 
ioned enough to believe that our ancestors may have been as 
wise as ourselves.” 

“That I never disputed,” Sibella threw in. 

“ And I do not feel competent to decide for myself every 
question under the sun.” 

“A very creditable humility,” said Sibella; “but if you 
regard it as presumptuous to reject the doctrines of your fore- 
fathers, you must possess a vast and varied store of opinions; 
for you are very much to be envied— especially if you suc- 
ceed in keeping the peace among them.” 

Adrienne grew impatient. 

“ Of course I don’t mean that I take every idea without ex- 
ception ” 

“You take only those that suit you; then after all, Miss 
Lancaster, I do not see that your humihty so very much 
transcends mine.” 

Adrienne, who was accustomed to rule the conversational 
world of Upton, felt angry and bewildered. 

She had a complete and dignified confidence in her “ princi- 
ples;” an underlying satisfaction in her powers of insight, of 
language, and of judgment. To-day all these seemed at fault. 

Sibella was of course profoundly mistaken, but it was not 


222 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


very easy to make the fact appear. Adrienne’s cause, al- 
though that of Heaven, did not triumph as so righteous a cause 
ought to have triumphed. 

The usual comfort of the baffled advocate of Heaven was 
denied her; for Adrienne did not regard herself as weak in 
argument or retort— quite the reverse. If, under her guar- 
dianshipj Heaven lost ground, the look out for Heaven was 
very serious. 

No one sooner than Adrienne would have laughed at the 
position had it been boldly presented, but so mysterious are 
the workings of the mind that all are capable of taking men- 
tal attitudes which the sense of humour would alone forbid 
were it brought to bear upon the case. 

“ I fear I have not won you over to my views,” said Adri- 
enne; “ and therefore it seems useless for us to continue the 
interview, though I shall leave you with a heavy heart, as I 
feel that my poor friend has an insidious and powerful enemy 
just when she has most need of allies. I, at any rate, shall 
spare no effort to counteract your influence.” 

“ A declaration of war,” said Sibella, rising and going over 
to the fire. 

“You leave me no alternative. I cannot stand by and see 
that girl disgrace herself and everyone connected with her. 
I consider not only the gii’l herself, hut her people— especially 
her mother and father.” 

“ Ah! she must save his elms and his honour,” said Sibella. 
“ She has not frizzled in her wicker cage long enough to sat- 
isfy her friends.” 

“I entirely dispute the analogy between Viola’s case and 
Druidical sacrifices,” said Adrienne. 

“ Therein also history repeats itself,” returned Sibella. 

Adrienne, who had half risen, paused undecidedly. 

Something in Mrs. Lincoln’s face made her go up to her, as 
she stood leaning against the mantelpiece, her head upon her 
hand in a dejected attitude. 

“I ask you to have pity, Mrs. Lincoln,” said Adrienne; “I 
ask you, a woman, to help me to save this sister from the 
worst fate which the world has to offer. Never mind whether 
or not the world is justified in so punishing her; all you need 
consider is that it does so punish her, and that the punish- 
ment means absolute ruin. Think of it !— a girl sheltered as 
Viola has been sheltered, accustomed to refined society ” 

“Her father’s, for instance,” Mrs. Lincoln suggested. 

“ Accustomed to he protected from all slight or insult ” 

“Her husband’s, for example ” 

“To be cared for and saved from all offensiveness and 
vulgarity ” 

“Mrs. Pellett’s and Mrs. Russel Courtenay’s.” 

Adrienne paused reproachfully. “ Think of the fate of this 
girl, cut off from all her friends.” 

“ Would all her friends desert her then ?” 


THE SHIRT OF JSTESSUS, 


228 


Adrienne coloured. “ A woman’s good name would suffer 
if she remained her friend.” 

“ Oh !” said Sibella, shortly ; “ go on.” 

“Then, to be practical, what could she do? where could 
she go to ? what would she live upon ?— it makes me shiver 
to think of it ! She could not go into a family and teach. 
Who would take a governess who had run away from her 
husband?— and what else offers itself to a woman of Viola’s 
training. Have you considered all this ? Have you really 
thought wliat you are doing ?” 

“ Miss Lancaster, I can only reply that I have your friend’s 
welfare at heart fully as much as you have, and that I have 
thought of everything. I, and all that I possess, will be at 
her service. We have each to act as we think best, since we 
fail to convince one another. As long as I live, Mrs. Dendraith 
has at least one devoted friend who will never desert her.” 

And with that assurance, Adrienne had to be content. She 
left Mrs. Lincoln, with an uncomfortable sense of failure, and 
walked home vividly thinking. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 



THE SHIRT OF NESSUS. 


To die, to be unconscious! the longing for it was like a 
gnawing hunger in the soul. 

To be mercifully wafted away into a great silence, where 
there was no heart-ache, no passions to struggle against, no 
indignity! Whatever Viola’s hps uttered as she knelt in 
prayer, that was the cry of her heart. 

The day arrived for dining at Cleveland ; a day to which 
Viola had looked forward with uneasy joy, mingled with 
dread. Harry would be there ! Her nerves quivered ; she felt 
as if she were visibly trembling. The evening found her worn 
out and haggard with excitement. 

“ Viola, you have been out so little since our marriage that 
your wedding-dress must be quite fresh still, especially as 5^011 
never put it on— in consequence, it would seem, of me having 
once admired it. I should like you to wear it to-night, and 
also the diamonds I gave you, which you also appear to 


White gown and diamonds were awaiting her when, the 
hour for dressing arrived. The dress lay gleaming on the 
sofa; the diamonds on the toilet-table. Anything that sym- 
bolised her marriage she shrank from touching as if it had 
been fire. And to-night she must array herself in that glisten- 


224 


THE Wim OF AZRABL. 


ing garment, feel it like a shirt of Nessus, close and firm, 
burning, burning 

“You look well!” said Philip, critically, when his wife ap- 
peared in her ghstening satin and soft lace ; ‘ ‘ and the diamonds 
are very becoming. But you are pale, — however, that is 
pardonable with dark hair. You wear no flower’s; is that from 
design?” 

She looked down at herself. 

“ You want that finishing touch.” 

He went and brought some azaleas from the consei’vatory. 

“Here is the very thing — a spray for the dress and a spray 
for the hair.” 

He advanced to arrange them for her, but she drew back, 
scarcely perceptibly, and held out her hands for the flowers. 

“Thank you.” 

Philip turned on his heel, walked over to the other end of 
the room, and laid them quietly on the fire. 

“If you won’t take your adornments from me, you can go 
without. You certainly have a habit of straining at a gnat, 
my love, having swallowed the camel. You can’t bear me to 
touch you while I fasten in a bunch of flowers.” He laughed, 
looking her in the face with an expression that made her sick 
with fury. The delicate azalea-petals were shrivelling as he 
spoke, helpless in the savage hunger of the flames. 

The sight was full of parables. 

The eyes of husband and wife met. 

“Have you not learnt wisdom ?” he asked. “Are you al- 
ways going to play the rdle of obstinate child?” 

“I am as I was made, and as I was taught,” she exclaimed. 
“I can’t adapt myself— I can’t alter myself— I am helpless. 
Things are too much for me; I cannot bear it.” 

She walked to the window repressing the blinding tears that 
welled into her eyes. 

“ My dear, you choose your time for a scene admirably. I 
hear the carriage just coming round.” 

Viola was struggling for composure, and dare not trust her- 
self to speak. 

“ Sulky !” he said, with a shrug of the shoulders. “ That, I 
hope, will give way before you join your aunt and her guests. 
Come, I hear Cupid on his way to announce the carriage. In 
his presence, at least, don’t be emotional, I pray.” 

The butler (or Cupid, as Philip called him) entered at the 
auspicious moment, and found the husband helping his w^e 
on with her cloak. Cupid thought his air was most devoted, 
but to Viola the acts seemed like an assertion of right, the 
signal of victory, a careless victory, as if he had overcome the 
will of a tiresome child. 

Viola’s eyes were quite dry as she took her place beside her 
husband. He glanced at her, and, seeing that she was calm, 
settled himself in his corner with a satisfed air. 

The irreproachable little brougham trundled along over the 


THE SHIRT OF NESSXfS. 


225 


bleak downs, its lamps sending in advance a flying shaft of 
light chasing the darkness, which closed up behind it as waters 
close behind a moving ship. Heine might have written a 
bitter little poem on that well-appointed equippage with its 
sleek coachman, sleek horses, smart footmen^ moving daintily 
through the darkness discreetly across the wide solitudes with 
the eternal sea-chant beating through the salt winds of the 
downs. The mysteries of nature, the mysteries of the human, 
confronted one another cynically. 

Perhaps, after all, a well-appointed brougham and a credit- 
able coachman are matters as deeply mysterious in their way 
as any we find to ponder upon within the range of nature. 

When presently Clevedon came in sight, Viola’s heart gave 
a throb. Harry’s face rose up before her and his voice sounded 
in her ear. The shuttles of her fate were moving fast and 
furious. W ould she have strength to get through the evening, 
with this iron band clutching her heart, and stopping its beat- 
ing? She could hardly breathe. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Philip Dendraith.” 

The assembled guests in the drawing-room at Clevedon 
watched with interest the entry of the newcomers. 

“ Well, Viola dear! How are you?” said her aunt, cordially. 
“Cold, I suppose, after your drive ; take that chair by the fire. 
Mrs. Featherstone, I thmk you know my niece. Oh ! yes, of 
course, you have exchanged calls. This other lady I need not 
introduce.” 

The “other lady” was Mrs. Sedley, who had greeted her 
daughter and given an anxious glance at her pale cheeks. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Russel Courtney!” 

Arabella was resplendent to-night. She entered with some 
vivacious remark on her lips, slightly inapropos perhaps, but 
very sparkling. She then serpentined round the room with 
arcmng neck, recognizing her friends and emitting exclama- 
tions of joy and surprise. 

“And Mrs. Sedley! I am so glad to see you again! It 
seemed as if we were never to meet ! I am deeply interested 
in your daughter, you know. I have quite made myself a 
nuisance in calling on her so often.” 

Mrs. Sedley gravely felt sure to the contrary. “ Ask Mrs. 
Dendraith, and she will tell you how I have pestered her,” 
said Arabella. “She is looking rather pale to night, but the 
white dress— her wedding-gown, I see, so prettily altered to 
the fashion— becomes her admirably !” (It clasped her close, 
burning, burning ) 

“ What a lot of people there are here to-night ; Augusta told 
me she was going to ask the whole County. I see that 
delicious Bob Hunter in the other room ; and the Pelletts and 
the Evans party.” 

Arabella looked all round curiously. 

“Of course Sir Philip and Lady Dendraith will be here. 
Ah ! yes, there they come. Oh ! do look how Mr. Sedley is 


226 


THE WTNG OF AZUAEL, 


devoting himself to Mrs. Featherstone ; I should be quite 
jealous if I were you! I always keep a watchful eye on my 
husband ; it is quite necessary. Men are all alike in that way.” 
Arabella laughed — “ I don’t think we should care for them 
much if they weren’t a little — just a little bit — don’t you 
know?” 

“ Mrs. Dixie, Miss Lancaster, and Mr. Lancaster!” 

“ Then you don’t care for hunting, Mrs. Dendraith?” 

“ Hunting, no— I— not hunting— I don’t care for hunting- 
very much.” 

Mrs. Dixie, entering the room, looked like a schooner in full 
sail, with her healthy-looking ancestor still at her throat. 

Viola presently found herself being shaken by the hand and 
talked to about something that she did not comprehend ; and 
then she became aware that Adrienne was speaking to her, 
and then — there was a sort of whirl in the air and a flicker of 
the candle-light, — and the next moment her hand was in 
Harry Lancaster’s. 

And she felt nothing, except this whirl in the air, and this 
ebb and flow of light. Her hand might have been a block of 
wood. He was looking at her flxedly, — was it for a second or 
was it for many seconds? Presently she became conscious 
that he held it lio longer. 

She did feel something then ! Something hot and desperate 
—a leaping up of the heart, a wild yearning to feel that touch 
again. What was righteousness duty, heaven, or hell? Noth- 
ing, nothing. Be it right or wrong, she cared only for one 
thing in the whole world, and for that she cared madly, — only 
for !” 

“Mrs. Dendraith, ahoy!” 

From one end oi the long room to the other Bob Hunter 
had half skipped, half skated, across the floor, pulling up 
opposite to Viola, and bowing low. He then proceeded with 
perfect gravity to perform a few steps, fixing her intently 
with his eye, and keeping his body steady, while his legs 
moved with extreme nimbleness. He seemed to expect her 
to break into steps likewise, and she even began to fear that 
he would take her by the hand and insist upon her dancing, 
perhaps as a substitute for conversation. He knew that she 
did not understand that difficult art. 

She saw Geoffrey on the broad grin, watching the little 
scene from the fire-place; Mrs. Dixie putting up her eye- 
glass to observe the conduct of her would-be son-in-law. 

Adrienne with flushed cheeks stood beside her, trying to talk 
to an unwilling neighbour, who wanted to watch Bob Hunter. 

That athlete came suddenly to rest, remarking that exer- 
cise was better than any tonic. 

‘ ‘ Charmed to see you here to-night, Mrs. Dendraith — I ad- 
dress you without ceremony, you see. Ceremony is the bane 
of genius.” 


THE SHIRT OF NE8SU8. 227 

“ You ought to know Mr. Hunter,” said Arabella enchant- 
ingly. 

Bob Hunter swung round and made her a bow. 

Then he swung back again to Viola, and asked her what 
was the difference between a windmill and a Dutch cheese. 
Poor Viola blushed distractedly, and said she really had not 
the slightest idea. There lurked an uneasy fear that he 
thought of Arabella as the windmill. 

‘‘Oh 1 come now — this is weak,” remonstrated young Hunt- 
er; “ try and think.” 

“I can’t guess riddles,” cried Viola; “ I never could.” 

“Use your intellect,” urged the tormentor. 

“I haven’t got one!” exclaimed Viola in desperation, at 
which Bob gave a chuckle. 

“This is becoming serious; I must have that riddle an- 
swered;” and to Viola’s intense relief he danced off to the 
other side of the room, going from group to group, asking 
what was the difference between a windmill and a Dutch 
cheese. 

“ My court fool,” said Lady Clevedon, with a shrug of the 
shoulders. 

Adrienne gave a curious little movement and a spasmodic 
smile. The vision of a warmly lighted room with a view of 
sea through its long windows was before her at that moment ; 
of a dainty figure and a face with curving lips: she seemed 
to hear in turn quiet words of scorn and irony, words of sym- 
pathy, words of defiance. What would Sibella Lincoln think 
of a woman marrying Bob Hunter in order to be settled in 
hfe ? 

Adrienne frowned, and tried to shake off the recollec- 
tion. Had the woman whose character could not bear in- 
vestigation actually been able to make Adrienne Lancaster 
feel her attitude towards Bob Hunter degrading ? The idea 
of accepting his offer had not been regarded as quite out of 
the question. To sell herself was therefore not quite out of 
the question. 

“Ah! Mr. Lancaster at last!” exclaimed Arabella; “the 
hero of the evening ! I thought T was never to have a word 
with you ; every one has been crowding round you so. Tell 
me, is it really nice to be a universal favourite?” 

“I thought that you would have known all about that, 
Mrs. Courtenay.” 

“ I ? Oh dear, no I quite an obscure person. I want to know 
whether you enjoy being a cynosure— -don’t you know?” 

“A ?” 

“A cynosure of every eye.” 

“ Depends painfully upon the eye, Mrs. Courtenay.” 

“ Oh, you are horrid! You won’t give a plain answer to a 
plain question.” 

“ No, T give a plain answer to a beautiful person.” 

Mrs. Courtenay wriggled, and Adrienne looked at her 


228 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


brother in amazement. As Geoffrey said, Arabella would 
squeeze compliments out of a boot- jack ! 

“ And now, Mr. Lancaster, come and sit down on the sofa, 
and tell me everything you have been doing since you left us 
all lamenting. You can’t think how dead and alive Upton 
has been without you !” 

“Indeed, Mrs. Courtenay, lean.” 

“Come, I can’t have you conceited; that would be to spoil 
perfection.” 

“Am I to regard myself as perfection?” 

“ Oh no ! for then you would no longer be perfect.” 

“As long as I continue to believe I have faults, I shall 
know that I remain faultless. It is worth crossing the Irish 
Channel to discover this !” 

“ Now, no more badinage. I want to hear the serious truth 
about you. You don’t seem in the least ill, Mr. Lancaster; I 
believe you are a fraud, and just got up a little scare to secure 
sympathy. Well, you have succeeded in your wicked design, 
and all the Upton ladies are prepared to make a pet of you, 
and to insist upon your taking their medicines and going to 
their doctors. Won’t that be nice?” 

“ Delicious,” said Harry. 

“That sweet Mrs. Dendraith seemed quite concerned about 
you. By the way, do you know I have been envying her for 
getting the first sight of you after your return. She was 
highly favoured ” 

“ I don’t know exactly what you mean,” said Harry, not 
without a feeling of suspicion and uneasiness. “ I see her to- 
night for the first time.” 

“ Oh ! come, Mr. Lancaster, that won’t do !” cried Arabella, 
laughing. “Why I had it from her own lips ! If you wanted 
to keep it dark, you ought to have engaged her not to tell.” 

“ StiU I don’t understand,” said Harry. 

“Well, let’s go and ask her about it; she will explain.” 

“I don’t think it’s worth explaining; questions of date do 
not interest me.” 

“ Oh! but this is more than a question of date,” said Ara- 
bella, meaningly. 

But as Harry would not follow her to Viola, she had to con- 
tent hei'self with asking how he thought her looking. 

“ Pretty well,” he said. 

“She is so very quiet, is she not? I sometimes feel she is 
not happy. Yet her husband is very nice, and handsome be- 
yond expression.” 

The announcement of dinner sent people hunting for their 
appointed partnera. Viola was allotted to Dick Evans ; nearly 
opposite to her sat Geoffrey radiantly happy by the side of 
Adrienne Lancaster. Adreinne had been conducted by Bob 
Hunter in his maddest humour. Viola saw that he was pro- 
posing to her at intervals during dinner; poor Geoffrey’s 


TEE SHIRT OF NESSUS. 


229 


happiness fearfully diminishing as he became aware of these 
untoward circumstances. 

Harry Lancaster and his Fate Arabella were also on the 
opposite side of the table. Mrs. Dixie had been introduced 
to an old gentleman called Bavage whose name she caught 
imperfectly, but whom she at once claimed to have met twenty 
years before, and so worked upon the feelings of Mr. Bavage 
that he too had recollections of that far-off divine event. 

“The name of Savage revives many old memories,” said 
Mrs. Dixie, pensively; whereupon Mr. Bavage mentioned 
that Pixie was a name almost as familiar as his own, and so 
they went on mistaking one another in the most complicated 
manner for two other people whom they had not met for 
years. 

Now and then Viola caught sight of Harry in animated 
conversation with Miss Featherstone. 

Miss Featherstone was cold and calm and fashionable, and 
Viola found herself growing more and more antipathetic 
towards the hard handsome face. 

Loneliness was not a new sensation to Viola, but as she 
glanced round the table at the rows of polite faces, she thought 
that never in her life before had she felt so friendless. 

Harry was there, yes, but it might have been his ghost ; he 
had neither look nor word for her now ! Well, no matter! 

Nothing could matter any more. That was one comfort. 
Things had come to a climax ; old faiths had been shaken, 
cherished principles held from childhood were growing dim ; 
in thought she could sink no lower; heaven had drifted out 
of sight. She loved guiltilj^ — it had come to that ! — and she 
loved in vain. 

Viola caught the admiring eyes of her adorer Dorothy fixed 
upon her, and turned away her own with a sickening sense 
of shame and misery. 

“ O Dorothy, if you knew I” 

Dick Evans was talkative. He told Viola all about some 
interesting excavations that were being made upon the bar- 
rows in the downs, and he wanted to know if she really would 
not be persuaded to go for walks with him again. What was 
the objection? Did her husband think Dick would run away 
with her? 

“Heavens knows !” said Viola. 

“You look as if you wanted exercise,” pursued Dick. “I 
don’t mean that you had better run away with me on that 
account. You seem paler than you used to be.” 

“Do you think I am going to die?” she asked with a little 
laugh. 

“Oh no, no; only you ought to be careful of yourself.” 

“ What have I to be careful of?” 

Dick looked at her. “What is the matter with you to- 
night? You are not like yourself.” 

That evening’s conversation brought Dick to the conclusion 


230 


THE WING OF AZTtAEL. 


that women are flighty sort of creatures, not to be counted 
upon as understood; that they don’t quite know what they 
want, or if they do, by some" strange perversity of nature, 
they refuse to take it when they get the chance. There is 
something not quite sane, he thought, about even the best 
of women. A little further down the table, sublimely igno- 
rant of the many little dramas that were being acted around 
him, sat old Mr. Pellett, who had been rapt still warm from 
his studies, and brought, much against his will, to join the fes- 
tive gathering. He was in a state of absent-minded amia- 
bility, listening very humbly and a little bashfully to the 
remarks of a young lady of seventeen who was talking to him 
about lawn-tennis. Mr. Pellett in Upton society was a truly 
pathetic figure. / 

On her left, Viola had a grey-headed person who appreciated 
a good dinner, and a young woman who forebore to nag him 
with trivial chatter during the sacred hour. She was there- 
fore often at liberty to watch the others and to busy herself 
with her own excited thoughts. Once or twice, looking up 
suddenly, she would find Harry’s eyes fixed upon her as if 
he had been exerting over her some subtle magnetic power. 

There was an expression in his face that set her heart beat- 
ing furiously ; he used to look so in the old days. 

The next moment he was relating some anecdote to his 
neighbour which created a shout of laughter; Philip capped 
it with a second and Mr. Sedley with a third. Bob Hunter 
bringing the series to a climax and setting the whole table in 
a roar. 

Mrs. Sedley sat in her black dress gravely looking on, and 
wondering why every one was laughing. Her face was deadly 
white, and there were deep black lines under the eyes. She 
had told her husband before starting that she felt almost too 
unwell to accompany him to-night, but he had insisted on her 
coming, and as the painfulness of the ordeal induced her to 
regard it as a duty, she gave in. Once an intervening head 
was moved aside, and Viola caught sight of her mother’s suf- 
fering face. In an instant there was a rush of fear and shame 
at her own unholy thoughts. What unspeakable grief there 
would be, if the mother knew how the daughter had changed 
in these two short years! Was there nothing in this world 
for her but sorrow and disappointment ? Her sons had caused 
her shame and grief, and her -daughter—-? Scarcely half an 
hour ago that daughter had been ready to fling over every- 
thing on earth, for the sake of a lawless passion which Marian 
Sedley’s child ought not even to know the meaning of. 

Eoars of laughter awakened the echoes of the old dining- 
room. Except Mrs. Sedley’s, there was not a single grave face 
at the table. Her husband was talking about the peculiar 
attractions of widows, and their extreme fondness for the 
“dear departed.” “A man never knows how devoted his 


THE SHIRT OF NE8SUS. 


231 


wife is to him till he dies,” said Phihp: “it must be sweet to 
die.” 

“Death is undoubtedly the great white washer,” Harry 
asserted. 

“Or the great endearer,” suggested Adrienne. 

“ He that would be loved, let him make haste to die,” said 
Harry. 

“We shall all be loved some day! Let us be thankful!” 
cried Bob Hunter. 

Dorothy Evans shook her head vigorously. Her brother 
saw that she had Mrs. Pellett in her mind’s eye. 

“ I am sure there are some people that one couldn’t love 
even after they were dead !” announced the yoimg woman. 

“ My dear!” remonstrated Mrs. Pellett. 

“Not if they died ten times over,” said Dorothy, with in- 
creasing conviction. 

“My dear child, so unchristian!” 

“Not if they didn’t wake up at the sound of the last 
trump!” she added, doggedly piling up the agony. “You 
would feel everlastingly grateful to them for dying, but you 
could never love them — never /” 

“Perhaps you don’t know how to love, Dorothy,” said 
Dick with a half- warning smile. 

“ Oh ! don’t I?” said Dorothy with a glance at Viola. 

“Do you love me, Miss Dorothy?” enquired Philip indo- 
lently. “ Man and wife are one, you know, so you ought to 
do so.” 

“No, no, I don’t,” said Dorothy briefly. 

“Would you love me if I were dead?” 

“No.” 


“ Can you imagine any circumstances in which you would 
entertain that feeling towards me?” 

“Nobody ever loved anybody who asked questions,” Doro- 
thy retorted. 

‘‘I feel crushed,” said Philip; “it is evidently time for me 


to die. ” 


“ Then why don’t you do it?” asked the ruthless one beneath 


her breath. 

He caught the words and laughed. 

“All in good time, cruel but fair one,” he said. 

Mrs. Sedley, who was leaning back in her chair, saying 
nothing, made a slight spasmodic movement, but no one 
noticed it. 

“Don’t talk of dying in that flippant manner,” said Lady 
Clevedon ; “ it is uncanny. ” 

When she gave the signal to the ladies, Mrs. Sedley rose 
with an effort, and moved from the table giddily. She recov- 
ered herself, however, and passed into the drawing-room with 
the others. Viola characteristically lingered behind, allowing 
more self-confident ladies to precede her, and alas ! by the 
tactics failing into the clutches of the ever-watchful Mrs. 


232 


THE WINE OW AZBAEL. 


Pellett, who took her by the arm encouragingly, and led her 
out with the faintly rustling procession. 

In the drawing-room every one drew round the fire, and be- 
gan to talk, chiefly of local matters and domestic details. 

“You are not well to-night, Marian,” said Lady Clevedon, 
leading her sister-in-law to a low chair. 

“Not quite well,” Mrs. Sedley confessed. 

Viola had deserted Mrs. Pellett, and was standing by her 
mother’s side. 

“It is nothing,” said Mrs. Sedley, catching sight of her 
daughter’s face. “ I often feel so — very often.’’ 

Viola tried to persuade her to go home at once. 

“ Oh! dear, no, your father would be annoyed; I shall soon 
be all right — if you will hand me that bottle oi smelling-salts.” 

Viola gave it and repeated her persuasions, saying that she 
would return with her mother to the Manor. 

But it was of no avail. Mrs. Sedley was determined to re- 
main and suffer to the end. 

“Only another hour and a half,” she said with a faint smile. 

The other ladit^s, having discussed all local matters, were 
now engaged upon a recent scandal which had been making a 
stir in the fashionable world. 

Viola was sitting apart, pale and exhausted with excite- 
ment. 

“OMrs. Dendraith,” cried Arabella, “you lost that anec- 
dote; it is for your private ear— quite too shocking to relate 
in public.” 

“I fear it will be wasted on* me,” said Viola, shrinking 
back. 

“Oh! you can’t fail to enjoy it; it is really too good, isn’t 
it, Miss Featherstone?” 

Viola drew away quickly. “Please don’t trouble, Mrs. Courte- 
nay; I hate such stories.” She said it with such a fierce vig- 
our that there was an awkward silence among the ladies, the 
silence that always falls when any strong expression of opin- 
ion is given in society. Viola set her lips, as she played with 
the blade of a paper-knife, and felt a wild impulse to hurt 
physically these well-dressed complacent beings who seemed 
incapable of being hurt in any other way. It was incredible 
to Viola that women could be so vulgar and so ignoble. 
Presently Bob Hunter appeared as forerunner of his col- 
leagues, who were lingering over their wine. 

Viola’s heart began to throb. At last Harry Lancaster 
came into the room and was immediately waylaid by Sir 
Philip and by Mrs. Featherstone. He seemed to be in a lively 
vein to-night, for wherever he went there was a stir and a 
burst of laughter. Viola had to clutch her paper-knife very 
tightly to prevent herself from visibly trembling. 

“ O Mr. Lancaster,” Mrs. Courtenay was saying, “I have 
heard such shocking things about you ! I hope they aren’t 
true.” 


TEE SHIRT 'OF NE8SU8. 


233 


I hope not, I am sure,” said Harry. 

‘‘ I hear that you call upon this dreadful Mrs. Lincoln who 
has come to live here. I tell Sir Philip it is encouraging im- 
morality to let her rent his house.” 

“ Clearly,” said Harry, “any one who lets his house con- 
nives at the misdeeds of his tenant, past, present, and 
future.” 

“ No, but really,” urged Mrs. Featherstone, “ I think it is so 
bad for the neighbourhood. I hope you haven’t been weak 
enough to call upon her.” 

“ It is very kind of you to take so much interest in m^,” 
said Harry. “You can’t imagine me frequenting any but 
the most irreproachable society, I hope. Are not your severe 
doors open to me?” 

“Oh, I’m not so particular about my men,” retorted Mrs. 
Featherstone, with a laugh. “ I used to know Mrs. Lincoln 
a little before the scandal. I can’t imagine what she comes 
here for. The man she ran away with is dead, isn’t he ?” 

At this moment, Viola, who had been receiving the homage 
of Dorothy Evans, was sitting alone on a sofa, Dorothy being 
summoned by her mother to have her sash rearranged, it 
having characteristically worked round from the back to the 
front without interference from the wearer. 

Harry managed to break away from Arabella and went 
straight to the vacated seat. 

“ I thought I was never to have a word with you,” he said 
in a low hurried voice. “ There seems a fate against it.” 

Philip’s eyes were resting on them. 

“ I want to give you a letter presently; don’t start: look as 
if I were telling you that the weather in Ireland for the last 
month has been extremely changeable. The letter is from 
Mrs. Lincoln, not from me. You never in your life had a 
more sincere friend than she is. The shock headed little girl 
who has just left you is eq^ually sincere, perhaps, but not more 
so. I met them both, and oh ! Viola, do as Mrs. Lincoln asks 
you.” 

She raised her eyes to his for a moment. Suddenly her 
head swam; she grasped the back of the sofa, breathing 
quickly. 

“What is in the letter?” 

“There is no opportunity to tell you now; I shall be sus- 
pect-ed. Viola, one word or sign ” — Harry bent towards her 
with his elbow on his knee, his hand half hiding his face. 
“Drop your handkerchief for ‘yes,’ touch the lace on your 
dress for ‘ no.’” 

There was a rustle of silk close beside them. Viola gave a 
little gasp. 

“However, we had plenty of gaiety,” said Harry in a con- 
versational tone; “the Irish are a very hospitable people.” 

By this time Mrs. Pellett had passed on. 


S34 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


“Now for my (question, Viola. Do you trust me, and will 
you do as Mrs. Lincoln asks in this letter ?” 

She dropped her handkerchief, and Harry stooped to pick 
it up. 

Mrs. Kussel Courtenay was approaching. 

“And Mr. Evans really is thinking of restoring this 
church ? I hope they won’t make a gaudy monstrosity of 
the old place. I don’t like restorations.” 

Harry rose to give up his place to Mrs. Courtenay. 

“Oh! please don’t rise; you two looked so comfortable and 
happy there, I wouldn’t disturb you for the world. ” 

“ Thank you. Well, we were very comfortable and happy, 
as you say,” said Harry, who had become rather white, “but 
our happiness A^ould he still greater if Mrs. Courtenay would 
bestow upon us the light of her countenance.” 

“Flatterer, avaunt!” with a cursory gaze at Viola’s pale 
cheeks. 

“Mr. Lancaster,” she said impressively, “I don’t believe 
your polite speeches.” 

The two looked for a second in one another’s eves. 

“Scepticism, Mrs. Courtenay, is the curse of the century.” 

“ Oh ! there are other curses besides scepticism,” said Mrs. 
Courtenay ; ‘ ‘ things, for instance, are coming to a dreadful pass 
in society — people running away from their husbands, and all 
that sort of thing. You know this case that’s in all the papers ! 
Eeally it makes one wonder who is to be trusted, as if one might 
expect one’s nearest and dearest to be in the divorce court 
to-morrow. I am quite unhappy about it, I really am.” 

“That’s very good of you,” said Harry. 

“You speak in riddles, Mr. Lancaster. Do you know” — 
Arabella lowered her voice— “ Mrs. Dendraith got quite angry 
when we were discussing this divorce. Well, it is very horrid 
— she is so good and sweet, is she not?” — a pause — “ don’t you 
think so, Mr. Lancaster?” Arabella repeated. 

“ That follows from her set,” he said with a sort of jaded 
politeness. 

“ Oh, will you never cease these flatteries?” 

“ England expects every man to do his duty ”. 

“Mr. Lancaster, I don’t think I like you to-night. I be- 
lieve you are tired of me, and want Mrs. Dendraith to your- 
self. Well, I will not detain you.” She looked into his eyes 
as she said it, and then swept away, leaving Harry watching 
her with an absorbed expression. 

“ She guesses,” he said to himself. “ Well, I have to play a 
game against the world— an Arabella more or less makes 
but little difference. One can’t cheat these carrion crows of 
their natural food.” He returned to Viola, keeping a watch- 
ful eye on Philip and Arabella. He began to talk about dif- 
ferent matters, and then, without change of attitude or man- 
ner, he said, “ Will you take the letter?” 

She looked at her mother. Harry bent closer. 


DAUGHTER OF THE ENDLE88 NIGHT 


235 


“ Viola!” he repeated in a pleading tone. She gave a sign 
of assent. “I will put it into your hand as we say ‘good- 
night.’ It is very small; be careful not to drop it. There are 
many suspicious eyes around us. Burn the letter as soon as 
you have read it.” 

“We are being watched,” said Viola, nervously. 

“ I will leave you,” returned Harry; “ but as soon as you 
get an opportunity, go into the conservatory — it is cool and 
pleasant; you are looking very tired.” 

He left her without further hint. 

After a few minutes of conflict with herself, she rose and 
entered the conservatory. The cool green of the leaves and 
the sound of dripping water were grateful indeed to her tired 
nerves. She sank into a low chair, and a sensation of lan- 
guor crept over her ; a longing to give herself up to her fate, to 
resist and strive no longer. Soft music crept in from the 
drawing-room : Adrienne was singing a gondolier’s song, rhyth- 
mic and indolent. Viola heaved a deep, long sigh and lay 
back among the cushions. The tears of pleasure and relief 
welled up under her closed eyelids. 


CHAPTER XXXH. 

“daughter op the endless nigjit.” 

The music mercifully did not cease, and Viola lay there 
like a tired child resting. 

It was no surprise to her when presently a flgure stood by 
her side and a voice sounded in her ear. She did make one 
desperate effort to escape the danger of this interview, but 
Harry laid a hand upon her arm and she was helpless. 

“ There is no time to lose,” he said; “ let me give you the 
letter while I have the chance. It is to ask you to meet Mrs. 
Lincoln at Caleb Foster’s to-morrow. Caleb is a friend of 
Mrs. Lincoln, and he is absolutely trustworthy. Gossip is 
impossible to him. And now I want you to think deeply 
over our position. Everything depends on you. We— Sibel- 
la and I — are ready to take aU risks. But we can do nothing 
unless you help us.” 

“Why was I ever born !” she exclaimed. 

“Don’t despair,” he said gently, taking her hand. “No 
one need despair who is loved as you are loved.” 

She turned away. 

“ Viola, be reasonable. My love for you is now, as it has 
always been, the homage of my whole being; it is of the real 
and lasting kind, and it is ready— it has shown itself ready— 
for sacriflce. Why should you shrink from it?” 


236 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


She was pressing her hands over her eyes to force back the 
tears of joy. He loved her still — her fears were unfounded — 
the horrible loneliness was gone. The sense of wrong, for the 
moment, was drowned in the flood of joy and relief. 

“I am not pleading now for myself; I want you to under- 
stand that you have at your service one who is ready to risk 
anything for you, but who would despise himself if he tried to 
build up a claim upon you through that service.” 

(If she might only tell him !) 

“But I do want you to ask yourself if such a love as 
mine can be a wrong to any woman? if mere external circum- 
stances can turn right into wrong in a breath? Is it reasona- 
ble that a man who has wounded and insulted you should 
be able to claim your allegiance for ever, while a word of love 
from me must be repulsed as if it were a deadly sin ?” 

He was kneehng beside her, clasping her hands, though she 
made a spell-bound effort at resistance. Some instinct seemed 
instinct to hint to him that his words no longer fell on stony 
ground. 

She shivered at his touch. 

“Love is its own justiflcation. Everyone capable of real 
love knows that it is.” 

“If all thought that— ah! don’t touch me, I can’t think 
when you touch me — if all believed that, everything would fall 
into confusion.” 

He leant forward eagerly. 

“ And do you really think that society rests safe and sound 
upon its foundations of misery and martyred affection?” 

“I don’t know what to think or say. If your ideas are 
right, what becomes of loyalty and truth ?” 

Harry looked at her for a moment in moiumful silence. 

Sibella’s words still rang in his ears: “Such a woman is 
foredoomed. We cannot save her.” Was it true? He felt a 
gloomy foreboding that it was. The past seemed to be too 
strong for her, the attitude of feeling to be changelessly flxed, 
in spite of all the suffering she had endured. 

“Adrienne says I ought to" obey the call of duty, to regard 
myself as placed and dedicated for life. I am Philip’s wife; I 
can’t get out of that, can I? I can’t get out of the obligations 
which it implies, however terrible they may be — except by 
shirking.” 

“Listen to me, Viola; if there is such a thing as justice, I 
say that no woman is morally bound to a man when she is 
married to him as 7joii were married to your husband. You 
do no good to anyone by submission. You only add to the 
anguish of other women in your own position, and of men in 
mine.” 

To her, the words seemed full of the sophistry of passion, 
they made her heart beat, tempting and at the same time 
repelling. Emotion and the ingrained results of long train- 


dauohteh of the endless night. 237 

ing were in deadly conflict. The heart stirred beneath its 
crust of acquired sentiment. 

Harry began to wonder whether after all it would not have 
been wiser to leave Viola with her convictions undisturbed. 
It seemed a hopeless task to free her from them so entirely 
that she would be ready for action. And witliout action, it 
was worse than useless— so far as her own fate was concerned 
— to see clearly. Just in proportion to the additional knowl- 
edge would the suffering increase. 

“ Viola,” he said, “ you make me fear that after all I have 
only added to your misfortunes, instead of serving you.” 

“You have saved me from suffering quite alone. Adrienne 
is good and kind and a true friend, but, oh! she does not 
know, she does not understand.” 

“ If only I could take you away from all this misery, and 
comfort you and heal you as only the ministries of love can 
heal! Will you not come with me? I plead for something 
more than hie.” 

“And I,” said Viola, “have something more than life to 
defend.” 

“ And how will you defend it? By remaining the wife of a 
man you do not love?” 

“ You torture me !” 

He took her hand and kissed it. 

“ Viola, do you love me?” 

She hesitated. 

In a moment he had drawn her to him and laid her head 
upon his shoulder. She could not move without a strong 
effort, and she did not make the effort. She seemed half stu- 
pified. He stooped and kissed her on her hps, and Viola 
knew that her fate, whatever it might be, was sealed. 

“ I was certain this would come some day, but it seems too 
wonderful to be true.” 

Two or three never-forgotten moments of silence passed, 
and then Viola said, with a sigh: “But this can only bring 
unhappiness.” She tried to rise, but he held her tightly. 

“ Don’t talk to me of unhappiness when I hold you for the 
first time in my arms, and know that you love me! You 
will come with me, Viola,” he pleaded, “ you will hesitate no 
longer.” 

“ Oh, let met go! let me go! You mesmerise me— you be- 
witch me ; I did not mean to give way like this ; I am light- 
headed ; life is too hard for me— I can’t cope with it— it’s tem- 
tations are terrible.” 

‘ ‘ Thank heaven that you feel them ! Now it all seems plain 
to me. You will not sacrifice everything to mere prejudice 
any longer. You care for the thmg, not the name; you care 
for the honor that the heart recognizes, not the honor of the 
world. It may be good to suffer martyrdom, but your cause 
must be worth the sacrifice. What you are asked to suffer 


238 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


for— though it counts its martyrs by the thousand -is not 
worthy of the sacrifice.” 

“But I have fears, so many fears,” said Viola. “You 
want me to leave my husband. That means to disgrace my 
family.” 

“ Who have deliberately sacrificed you to their worldly in- 
terests ” 

“My mother believed she was acting for the best; as for 
my father, he only did what hundreds of parents are doing 
evei^ day.” 

“I think it is high time the other hundreds had their eyes 
opened a little,” muttered Harry. 

“It would break my mother’s heart,” said Viola. “ I can- 
not do it — it is impossible ! And my father — my brothers.” 

“Viola!” he pleaded, taking her hand and drawing her to- 
wards him, “you think of everybody except the one person 
who Joves you more than all the rest put together— a thou- 
sand times more. It would break my heart to lose you, and 
to know of your wretchedness ; but you never think of that. 
Perhaps if I had destroyed the happiness of your childhood 
and handed you over to misery for life, you might be careful 
about my heart too. As it is, I suppose I must expect always 
to come last.” 

“O Harry! you know I am struggling with temptation, 
struggling to do right— but all these ideas are so new to me, 
so appalling !” 

“I suppose it would surprise you to hear that to me that 
the old ideas are appalling. Why will you not act ? Sibella 
and I are pledged to support you and protect you through 
thick and thin.” 

“ I understand that; you are both far too generous and too 
good to me. Why should you trouble to rescue a foolish 
woman who has not the strength of mind either to submit 
silently to her fate or to break free from it bodily ?” 

“We do it because we love her,” said Harry. “Will she 
not make us happy by consenting to put herself in our faith- 
ful hands ?” 

Viola shook her head. 

“I dare not — I dare not — for my mother’s sake. I don’t 
fear anything for myself, but for her; no, I dare not.” 

“ Is that your sole reason ?” 

“ I only know that while she lives, I must endure it as best 
I may. I cannot deal her such a crushing blow ! She would 
die — indeed she would !” 

As the last words were uttered, Adrienne entered the con- 
servatory hastily. 

“Viola, dear,” she said, “ will you come with me ? Your 
mother is going home ; she feels unwell and wishes you to 
know.” 

“ Unwell !” Viola turned pale and hastened away. 


DAUGHTER OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT 239 

“lam afraid it’s serious,” Adrienne said in a low voice to 
her brother as she passed out. 

Mrs. Sedley was lying on a sofa in her sister-in-law’s bou- 
doir^ whence Lady Clevedon had banished every one but 
Adrienne and her own maid. 

“ What is it ? what is it ?” cried Viola. 

“I think it is a bad faint,” said her aunt; “she is much 
better now.” 

Mrs. Sedley was struggling for breath. 

“ Take me home, Viola ” she gasped. 

“ I don’t think you ought to be moved till you are better, 
Marion,” said Lady Clevedon. 

Mrs. Sedley ’s brows contracted painfully. 

“ Take me home,” she repeated. 

“Very well, you should go if you wish it. Gibson, will you 
go and ask Mrs. Sedley’s coachman to get his horses in as 
soon as he possibly can, and tell James to ride over and ask 
the doctor to go at once to the Manor-House ?” 

Before the carriage arrived, Mrs. Sedley seemed a little 
better, so that, when her husband came in to know what was 
the matter, she was just able to answer cheerfully that it 
was only a fainting fit, and that she was almost well again 
now. 

“I am sorry to hurry you away, but I am so afraid of be- 
ing laid up away from home. If Philip will allow her, Viola 
is coming back with me.” 

Adrienne had gone to tell Philip what had happened, and 
she returned with a gracious message of permission to his 
wife to accompany her mother home. Adrienne laid an ac- 
cent on the word permission^ as implying a right and dutiful 
spirit on the part of Viola, and commendable relations be- 
t^veen husband and wife. 

The stars were all ablaze as the ramshackle old vehicle 
trundled homewards across the downs. Mrs. Sedley lay back 
with closed eyes, Viola beside her, while Mr. Serlley and 
Geoffrey sat opposite, occasionally speaking in undertones. 
Mr. Sedley had begun with his usual bawl; but on Viola’s re- 
monstrance, he had reduced himself to a hoarse whisper, 
scarcely less trying to the nerves. One of the windows was 
open, admitting breaths of soft air imbued with the sweet- 
ness of early spring. Holding her mother’s hand, Viola sat 
looking out into the night. 

Creeds, doctrines, social laws — aU seemed to lose form and 
substance in that wild darkness ; they trembled and waned 
when brought thus face to face with nature— face to face with 
the inexorable facts and the unutterable sadness of life. 

Harry was right — these stars, this darkness, that unappeas- 
able sea confirmed him ; this pain, this failure and disappoint- 
ment, confirmed him. He pinned his faith to realities, to the 
great Facts and Passions of our life, and he flung conventions 
to the winds. He would have things, not names ; only people 


240 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


renowned for common-sense are mad enough to lay down 
their lives for the sake of words and j)hrases, to bid farewell 
to love, happiness, all the sweetest things of life, at the bid- 
ding of a shadow. 

Viola shivered with foreboding. In the dim starlight all 
the occupants of the carriage looked strange and white, but 
her mother’s face was ghastly. Death seemed to be already 
of the party. They could feel his presence among them. The 
pain -stricken, toilsome, joyless existence was nearing its end. 
It might be a matter of months, or of weeks, but the end was 
in sight. The brutal, pitiless demon of human destiny was 
about to put his last touch to the ugly work. And now to 
Viola, for the first time since her earliest childhood, Death 
seemed awful, instead of beneficient. 

For the first time, almost in his very presence, her heart 
rose in passionate anger against him and his clumsy solution 
of the human problem — destruction in default of cure. A 
vision of the glory and splendour of life was in her heart. 
She felt desperate for very pity as she gazed at the white 
face of the woman who had never known that glory even for 
a moment. To have lived for all these years and tasted so 
few joys! To have known nothing but care, anxiety, self- 
denial, cruel suffering and disappointment ; and nothing but 
ill-treatment from the man for whom all had been endured : 
to lose one’s life thus, and at last to die and leave no passion- 
ate regret in any heart, to be forgotten just because of the 
meek dutifulness which left no room for the more \dvid qual- 
ities which gave colour to the personality and attract the 
love of others, even though they be more like faults than 
virtues! Would she find in Heaven the love that she had 
missed on earth ? If not, she had missed love for all eter- 
nity ; she had missed everything — life itself ; she was like a 
blind person in a world of colour, one deaf in a realm of 
music. And to complete the irony of it all, the moral that the 
child was drawing now from her mother’s waning life stood 
in direct opposition to every principle for which that painful 
life had been given wholesale, as a willing sacrifice to God 
and Duty. 

There was a solitary oil-lamp burning in the hall when they 
arrived at the Manor-House. The place struck chill as one 
entered, and had the musty scent of old rooms seldom visited 
by the sunlight. 

After Mrs. Sedley had been carried upstairs and laid in the 
great four-post bedstead, the watchers began to look anx- 
iously for the arrival of the doctor. When he did come, hope 
seemed for the moment to revive. He had attended the 
family since Mrs. Sedley came to the Manor-House a bride - 
and they all looked to him for help in time of trouble. He 
was a grave man, with iron-grey hair and beard. With much 
solemnity, he felt the patient’s pulse, asked a few questions, 
and then sat down to write a prescription. 


DA UOHTER OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT. 


241 


When he left, Viola followed him from the room. 

‘‘ Tell me the truth, doctor,” she said. 

He looked at her doubtfully. 

“I want to know if there is any hope.” 

‘•Well, then, there is not,” he answered quietly. “There 
has been no hope for the last year and a half; the disease 
that your mother is suffering from has been coming on for a 
long time, but with her usual stoicism she said nothing about 
it until it was too late. She begged me so urgently not to re- 
veal the truth to any of her family that I yielded, not seeing 
what good it would do you to know.” 

Viola had turned aside, sick at heart. Life was one long 
tragedy. “ Then my mother has known for a year and a half 
that she was dying ?” 

“Yes; and she suspected the truth some time before that. 
She has had trouble in her day, and that has hastened t*he 
mischief ; in fact, I believe has induced it. But your mother 
has no fear of death— she is a sincere Christian, and can 
face it without flinching.” 

“And nothing can be done ?” asked Viola, ignoring the con- 
solation. 

“Nothing can be done, I am sorry to say, except to relieve 
some of the suffering.” 

Viola turned hastily away. 

“Thank you,” she said, “thank you for telling me the 
truth.” 

Two anxious days passed. Lady Clevedon drove over to 
help in the nursing, but Mrs. Sedley would not hear of it. A 
trained nurse was procured to relieve Viola ; and then com- 
menced long days of anguished watching. The suffering be- 
came more and more acute, till, at last, day and night there 
was no rest, scarcely a moment’s respite from pain. 

“Oh! can’t you give something to relieve it?” Viola used 
to ask the docter, with desperate eyes. 

“I have done what I can. There is one other strong 
remedy, but that would hasten the end. We must not do 
anything to anticipate by a second that appointed moment. 
It would not be right.” 

The same answer was given each time that Viola renewed 
her appeal. She felt at last a passionate hatred of that stolid 
word “right.” 

“I detest people who think more of doing right than of 
being merciful !” she exclaimed in exasperation, unconscious 
what a mental resolution the words revealed. She had been 
sitting for eight hours by her mother’s bed side, watching the 
paroxysms of anguish, helpless to relieve them. 

The doctor took her outburst quite calmly, merely giving 
orders that Mrs. Sedley should be tended more constantly by 
the nurse for the future, and that Mrs. Dendraith should be 
with her mother only for two or three hours at a time. 


242 


THE WING OF AZBAEL. 


“You will make yourself ill if you are not careful,” he said. 

“What does that matter?” 

‘ ‘ One patient in a house is quite enough ; besides, you could 
not then nurse your mother at all.” 

Viola gave in. 

Visitors now began to come from far and near to enquire 
for Mrs. Sedley. Adrienne, always to be found where there 
was trouble and her help might be needed, often managed to 
drive over to the Manor-Bouse to relieve Viola, and to cheer 


her. 

Mrs. Evans lent her a pony carriage, which sometimes 
Harry, sometimes Dorothy, used to drive. On several occa- 
sions, when Adrienne had gone upstairs to see Mrs. Sedley, 
Viola and Harry found themselves alone. But not a word 
passed between them about their interview at Clevedon, not 
a word about Sibella, except on Harry’s part when he de- 
livered a letter from her expressing regret and sympathy. 

Once Viola came down, looking white and almost desperate. 

“Your mother’s suffering is worse!” Harry exclaimed, 
coming over to her and laying his hand on her shoulder. 

“ Oh, it is too horrible 1 How can she live through it? The 
power of human endurance is ghastly ! Why can’t people die 
before it comes to this ? The doctor says there is a struggle 
between a strong constitution and a determined disease. The 
disease has got the upper hand, but they are fighting it out — 
and we can do nothing— nothing, but wait for the certain 
victory of the disease!” She sank upon the nearest chair, 
with a gesture of exhaustion, lying back for a moment with 
closed eyes. 

Harry bent down and kissed the thin little hand as it lay 
passively upon her knee. It trembled, and she drew it away. 

“When they know there’s no hope,” she said presently, 
“when they know it is merelj^ an affair of days or weeks, 
why don’t they give the sufferer everything and anything 
that will put an end to the torture, though it does shorten the 
life by a few days? What can it matter?” 

“What, indeed !” 

“ If I knew what that medicine was, I would give it my- 
self.” Viola said, rising excitedly. “ Why not, why not ? If 
only the doctor would consent to give it, and mother to take 
it!” But she shook her head with a hopeless sigh. 

“I fear it is impossible,” said Harry. “The doctor would 
never consent ! He is like all the rest of us, very respectful 
of the last few laboured breaths when existence is only a tor- 
ture, but careless how the life-stream is poisoned — while there 
is yet the precious gift of health to save! That is just our 
characteristic way of doing things! — Viola, you are worn out 
— you are killing yourself!” Harry exclaimed, hastening to 
her side, for she looked as if she were about to faint. 

“Not I,” she said, “ I wish to Heaven I were! That would 
solve the whole problem; I know no other solution” 


DAUGHTER OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT. 


243 


“ 7 do !” said Harry, in a low voice. \ 

“Don’t!” she exclaimed, turning away with an expression 
almost approaching to dislike. “I am inconsistent, I know; 
but in this house such words seem to burn and brand my very 
soul— even to see you, makes me feel— oh 1— if you only knew 
how hateful it all is to me! — to think of my mother upstairs, 
dying, trusting me absolutely, believing in me absolutely — 
and to meet you like this— under her roof, in this room, after 
— after what has passed ; I must not do it — if I could tell you 
the anguish of self-contempt that I feel when I think of it all !” 

She was standing by the window, with her arm raised to her 
head in very desperation. 

“You still feel my love — our love— to be guilty, then ?” he 
said, not daring to approach. 

“Oh yes!— no— I don’t know what I feel— but I can’t talk 
of it now ! Oh ! why did you disturb the certainty of my be- 
lief ? Why did you throw me into horrible conflict like this? 
I have “nothing now to cling to ! When I follow the old faith, 
I no longer feel calmly certain that I am right. I seem to be 
like the doctor and the rest of them— sacrificing others to my 
prejudice, to the good of my foolish soul; but if for a moment 
I dare to adopt your ideas, then the old feeling comes rush- 
ing hack torrent-like ; my mother’s spirit seems to stand be- 
fore me, pleading, exhorting, reproaching, and then — then I 
fling the sweet, hideous temptation from me, as I would 
hurl away some venomous serpent.” 

It struck Harry, as he watched her and listened to her 
with bleeding heart, that she was a symbol of the troublous 
age in which she lived, a creature with weakened, uprooted 
faith, yet with feelings and instincts still belonging to the past, 
still responding to the old dead and-gone dogmas. Harry felt 
api^alled at the conflict he had raised. Sibella with her keen 
insight had partly foreseen it. 

Not without a severe struggle with himself Harry prom- 
ised Viola that he would not come here again, since his pres- 
ence caused her so much pain ; and he was rewarded by seeing 
a shade cross her face. 

“Yes, it is better,” she said, shaking her head angrily, to 
throw off the inconsistent feeling of disappointment; “it 
will be much better.” 

“ Then this is to be our last meeting for some time.” He 
paused irresolutely. “Come out with me into the garden. 
We will drop all difficult and painful topics. I will not dis- 
tress you in any way if I can help it. Whatever else we 
may be to one another, we are at any rate two human beings 
in a mysterious and disastrous world— ignorant of our fate- 
ignorant of pretty nearly everything, except ‘that grief 
stalks the earth and sits down at the feet of each by turns,’ 
as some Greek poet says. On that ground, at any rate, v/e 
may meet without a sense of guilt, whatever be our creeds!” 
He opened the low window, and together they passed from the 


244 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


musty smells and dimness of the damp old drawing-room into 
the radiance of a sweet spring morning. 

The May blossom was not yet out, but every tree and bush 
was sprinkled with tender green; the tangled shrubberies 
were alive with tiny leaves. Overhead, the windows of Mrs, 
Sedley’s bed-room stood open to admit the sunshine and 
the balmy air. 

Hearing footsteps on the gravel, Adrienne came to the win- 
dow and looked out. 

“ What a perfect morning ! Viola, you look hke the genius 
of the spring in your white dress.” 

“ Oh, if you only knew, what would you think ?” Viola in- 
wardly exclaimed. 

“ And what do / look like ?” inquired Harry. 

“ Oh, you look like a prosaic sort of summer,” said Adri 
enne; “ one can’t expect to look symbolic in tweeds. Harry, 
I wish you would go and get me some cowslips — I see myriads 
of them in the park. ” 

“All right; will you come too, Mrs. Dendraith ?” She as- 
sented. 

The cowslips grew, as Adrienne had said, in myriads. 
Viola found herself taking more pleasure in the simple occu- 
pation of heaping them into her basket than she could have 
believed possible, considering the burdens that lay on her 
heart. How often in the old days had she and Geoffrey and 
Bill Dawkins gone wild over the cowslips, and the wonders 
of the spring ! How sweet they were ! how their ver}^ scent 
spoke of simple and innocent delight and the wonder of child- 
hood! The throb of bewildered misery ceased under the 
gentle ministry of sunshine and dowel's, and the unspeakable 
freshness of the rejoicing meadows 1 

When a vast bunch of cowslips had been amassed, the clean 
yellow trunk of a felled tree was chosen for a resting-place, 
where the chequered shade of young limes tempered the sun- 
shine. It was the site of Viola’s little sylvan temple of the 
days of yore : here the ruthless Thomas' had stood with his 
pruning-knife to desecrate and destroy ; and now the little 
wood, once more in festival array, was chanting its song of 
spring, forgetful of the freight of the years. Harry saw that 
a more peaceful look had come into Viola’s face, as her eyes 
wandered over the meadows and followed the movements of 
the white hurried clouds. 

She lay back resting, with a look in her eyes as if they 
were seeing something beyond the clouds and the blue of the 
heavens. The look was not one of joy, but there was neither 
fear nor grief in it. It was calm and penetrating. She and 
Fate seemed to be looking into one another’s eyes steadfastly. 
Motionless and silent she lay thus, apparently unconscious of 
the flight of time. The birds began to come close to the two 
still fingers, and a couple of squirrels bounded after one 
another up the nearest tree, chattering and crying excitedly, 


DAUGHTER OP THE ENDLESS NIGHT. 


245 


“When I was a little girl,” Viola said at length, scarcely- 
moving from her position, “I had a temple here; the walls 
were made of briony and the pillars of eglantine* The high 
altar was an ivy bush, and for incense I had the breath of 
flowers. I did not know it then, but it was the Temple of 
Life. There were symbols for everything, and I think I was 
dimly conscious of it even then. Eoses I carried in handfuls 
to my shrine, and as the seasons went by, all the sweetest 
flowers of the field — honeysuckle and wild briar and violets; 
and then for splendour, scarlet poppies; and for love and 
constancy, forget-me-nots; and for happiness, the big wide- 
eyed daisies of the cornfields. I had also the enchanter’s 
night-shade, which meant withcraft or fascination. And 
then there were dead leaves in shoals for melancholy, and the 
harebell for grief, and for faith the passion-flower. She 

S aused for a moment and then went on with a still more 
reamy look in her eyes, a still more dreamy calmness in her 
voice : 

“And I worshipped in that temple: at church on Sundays 
I prayed ; but before my own little woodland altar, I adored. 
It is hard to explain in words what it was I worshipped : I 
worshipped the earth and all that is in it ; I worshipped the 
loveliness of Life. 

“ One day when I came to my shrine the beautiful temple 
was in the dust. I found Thomas with his knife cutting the 
ivy and laying low the walls of eglantine. The high altar 
was flung down. 

“After that I had to live without a temple or an altar. 
Once thrown down, they can never be set up again ; the deed 
is done forever; the sacredness has gone, and all new tem- 
ples are half shams. And all that, item by item, happened 
to me afterwards in life. It was a prophecy. Now I have no 
temple.” 

A squirrel on a branch above peered curiously and timidly 
at the speaker and then darted up the tree in hot haste. 

“I think that I knew, child as I was, what was coming. 
It seems as if the shadow of Fate had been always upon 
me.” 

“The wing of Azrael,” Harry muttered beneath his breath 
with a cruel sinking of the heart. Then he roused himself. 

“But that is fatalism, Viola; you must not let the fancy 
paralyse you. Make your will into a circumstance dominat- 
ing all the rest.” 

“There are big powers at work,” she said, still in the same 
dreamy tone. “ I can see the wave of Destiny rolling in cen- 
turies old, high, resistless, unbroken, my will and yours mere 
pebbles on the shore— Hush ! Do you hear that?” 

She raised herself and sat listening. Harry knew what she 
meant. It was the deep woful sound in the breaking of the 
waves. 

He tried to pei’suade her that it was inevitable in certain 


246 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


states of the weather, and that he had heard it often when 
no disaster bad followed. 

“ Disaster will follow this” said Viola; “I feel it. I don’t 
mean about mother. What has to come soon to her will be 
no disaster, but a release. There is something else coming.” 

Harry felt with an inward shudder that this was only too 
probable. Matters could not continue long as they were, but 
what turn were they to take? That was the dreadful ques- 
tion. With a woman of Viola’s temperament, there was 
much to be feared. She had not the habit of good-fortune. 

Viola presently rose abruptly. 

“ It is time to go.” 

“And must I not come again?” he asked wistfully, taking 
her hand and looking at her with pleading eyes. As they 
stood thus they became aware of a stealthy footstep behind 
them. Their hands parted and Philip stood before them 
smiling., 

Viola turned very white, but she did not move. 

Harry’s attitude was quietly defiant. 

‘ ‘ I have been to the house expecting to find you with your 
mother, my dear” said Philip; “Miss Lancaster, however, 
has taken your place. It is very kind of Miss Lancaster.” 

“I was just going in,” said Viola. 

“Ah, I thought very likely, when I first saw you, that it 
would turn out that you were just going in. I have come to 
propose to stay a day or two here. I thought you would 
miss me if«we were parted so long.” This with a brilliant 
smile. “ Shall we stroll back together?” 

Philip did not allow the conversation to flag for a moment, 
and when Harry and Adrienne were sitting, ready to start, 
in the pony -carriage, he said affably that he hoped they would 
soon drive over again and see them. 

“You may be sure I shall come whenever I can,” said 
Adrienne as they went off. 

Philip and Viola stood watching them down the carriage- 
drive. 

“Pious occupation, nursing one’s mother,” said Philip, 
twirling his stick. 

Viola did not answer. 

“ You are a deeper young person than I thought, my dear,” 
continued Philip; “flirtation and filial piety form a remark- 
ably judicious combination. Who could object to a young 
wife’s going home to nurse her mother? No one but a mon- 
ster, of course; and if a young man happens to hover about 
the place at the same time — even though he is a former lover 
— who can object? Only the monster base enough to suspect 
unjustly his high -principled spouse. Cowslips— what could 
be more innocent? Viola,” said Philip, coming closer to her, 
“do you really think that you can carry on a flirtation with 
this man under my nose without my suspecting it?” 

“No, I do not think so for a moment,” she replied. 


DAUGHTER OF THE ENDLESS NIGHT. 


247 


“ Then, may I ask, why make the attempt?” 

‘•I did not make the attempt. I came here to nurse my 
mother, certainly without a thought of Mr. Lancaster’s com- 
ing here.” 

“Injured innocence,” sneered Philip. 

“ Not so,” said Viola; “ I do not call myself innocent !” 

“Oh, really —a pretty confession. Then are you allowing 
this man to make open love to you, and you actually have 
the audacity to tell this to meV' 

“1 have tried hard to remain true to my old principles, but 
I do not feel that I have succeeded. I tell you frankly that 
my sense of duty and allegiance to you is no longer what it 
v.’as. I have not entirely cast it off — it is too m.uch part of 
my being for that— but certainly I have ceased to feel as I 
used to feel about it, so I suppose there must be war between 
us. You need not trust me; I don’t ask to be trusted, for I 
no longer regard it as a point of honour to follow your wishes 
in all things, or to make my wifehood the sole pivot of my 
existence. I feel that it is a false relationship into which I 
ought never to have entered, and I do not now regard it as 
binding in the sense that I used to consider it binding, hold- 
ing sway over my every deed and thought. I repeat, do not 
trust me now. You must watch over me, frustrate me. I 
am no longer yours— body and soul. I belong partly to my- 
self at last. Half of my soul, if not the whole, is liberated. 
Do you understand?” 

‘’Understand that jargon? Certainly not ! I only under- 
stand that if this sort of thing goes on much longer, there 
will be nothing for it but to keep you a prisoner with a hired 
atteudaat to watch you every hour of the day. You know 
that I should stick at nothing if necessity prompted. By 
heaven! I would swear you were mad (I don’t think I should 
have to perjure myself either), and have you kept under lock 
and key, if it came to that. You evidentlj^ don’t know me 
yet. Meet this man again and I promise you that will be 
your fate. Don’t imagine I am using idle threats. That sort 
of thing doesn’t answer with a mule-headed woman like you. 
I speak without hyperbole. You shall not put my honour 
and my name in jeopardy, though you die for it. Now go to 
your mother— I wish to Heaven you had never left her!” 
******** 

Mrs. Sedley was in great pain during all that night ; Viola 
and the nurse took turns in watching by the bedside. The 
invalid had been asking anxiously for her sons, and a tele- 
gram had been despatched summoning the eldest and Geof- 
f r-ey, the only ones within reach. The second was with his 
regiment in India. 

The two arrived next morning, and it was strange to see 
the look on Mrs. Sedley’s face when she heard their footsteps. 
Viola was a well beloved child, but never had her presence 
evoked such a light of joy in her mother’s face as shone on it 


248 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL, 


now at the sight of the young scapegi’ace whose extravagance 
had helped to bring the family to the brink of ruin, and 
through whom the sister had been doomed to the most terri- 
ble form of sacrifice which a woman of her type can endure. 

Viola felt that after all the years of companionship between 
mother and daughter, this stranger son was more to her 
mother than she was. She who had watched by the bedside, 
feeling the anguish of every pang to her heart’s core, knew 
that the last look of love would be turned not on her but^ on 
him. 

And so it proved. 

The exaltation of feeling caused by her son’s return caused 
a rally in the invalid, but before evening the watchers saw 
that she was weaker, and that the alarming symptoms were 
increasing. 

The doctor was sent fOr, for the second time that day; and 
every one waited in suspense for his coming. There was a 
hush all thi’ough the house, which seemed the deeper from 
the heavy mist that hung about the park, the white, familiar 
mist which seemed so characteristic of the shut-in, gloomy, 
unhealthy old house, over which the hand of death was rest- 
ing. What could be more appropriate than death in that 
atmosphere of fog and stagnation ? Not the faintest stir was 
in the air; the movement and tumult of life had no place 
here. It w^as a spot where the most vigorous, if forbidden to 
return speedily to the outer world of hope and effort, might 
feel leady to lie down and die. 

The sound of the doctor's phaeton broke through the still- 
ness. 

His verdict was decisive ; the patient had not many hours 
to live, and, seeing what she suffered, her family were to be 
congratulated. 

A terrible five hours passed before the end came, hours 
which seemed to Viola like so many years of cruel experience. 

Mr. Sedley, when he was at last made to understand that 
the end was so near, became almost distraught. He knelt at 
the bedside sobbing like a child, entreating his wife to stay 
with him, declaring that he would be lost without her, that 
he had always adored her, even at his worst, and imploring 
her to forgive him for his past ill conduct. 

“My husband, if I have anything to forgive, I forgive it 
freely. I would have borne from you whatever you might 
choose to inflict — was T not your wife ?” 

“ I have been a brute,” he groaned. 

She laid her thin, long hand on his head, and said a few 
words in his ear. 

“ I will try,” he said, sobbing; “ I will try.” 

Her voice was growing very weak; the last moments were 
evidently drawing near. 

“Ah! you have ever been a good and dutiful child,” she 
said, as Viola with quivering lips bent down and kissed her. 


DUST TO DUST 249 

“God has been very good to me. You will be faithful to 
your life’s end.” 

At the last, a great peace seemed to fall upon the dying 
woman; she murmured texts from the Bible, interspersed 
with words of exhortation to follow Christ, to walk with Him 
to the end, to seek Him, and lose all for His sake. 

“ He has given me rest and peace; He has saved my soul 
with His precious Blood.” 

A woman of one mood, of one motive, one thought, she 
died as she had lived, with her eyes fixed on the same Image, 
the aspect-and perspective of all things still unchanged. She 
spoke in gasps : 

“ Viola, you will be faithful to the end— My husband, God 
will forgive— We shall meet again— God be with you, dear 
ones. To Him I commend you, till our blessed reunion in 
Christ— Christ, my God, save and forgive!” 

A last long kiss, whose memory remained to Viola’s dying 
day, the final pitiful farewells in the fading light of that 
dreary, fate-laden afternoon, and then all was over. 

Viola felt herself being drawn away by a firm, kindly hand, 
as the dying agony drew to its crisis. 

“ Do not grieve— I am thankful — so thankful.” 

The last look was for the son, the last prayer for his salva- 
tion. 

The long martyrdom was over. As far as earthly prescience 
could decide, the tired woman was at rest. 

The agonising wheel of life had ceased to whirl, and where 
there had been pain and striving, there was a black uncon- 
sciousness. Oh! to pierce for one moment that veil of mys- 
tery! To follow the departed soul through those gates of 
darkness ! 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

DUST TO DUST. 

Those were ghastly days at the Manor-House which suc- 
ceeded Mrs. Sedley’s death. 

The dull fog still clung about the park and shrouded the 
avenue, and on the second day a solemn rain began to fall, 
making everything sodden and unspeakably dreary. Mr. 
Sedley appeared to be stunned by his loss. He had never be- 
lieved in illness, unless it were a case of scarlet or typhoid 
fever. That any woman could go about with a mortal dis- 
ease gnawing at her life, performing her ordinary duties, was 
an idea quite out of his range, and it seemed almost impossi- 
ble for mm to realise that the old order of things which his 


250 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


wife had for so long maintained at the Manor-House war; 
over and done with forever. 

Mr. Sedley very soon set up a fiction that he had been a de- 
voted husband, and that his loss had utterly broken him. 

His- bewilderment, discomfort, and the profound disturb- 
ance of long- established habits, were all placed to the account 
of his gi-ief. 

Viola never knew how those dreadful days were lived 
through. She and Geoffrey drew near together during that 
funereal experience. He was strongly affected by his moth- 
er’s loss, not so much because he deeply felt it, as because ho 
found himself, for the first time, in the presence of death. He 
began to confide some of his difficulties to Viola, when they 
sat alone by the fire in the evenings, iDerhaps aifter passing 
together the door of that closed room where the dead woman 
lay so calm and peaceful. 

“Viola, they say in another fifty years nobody will believe 
in the immortality of the soul.” 

They were sitting in the drawing-room towards evening, 
the curtains not yet drawn. Outside was the same greyness 
and mist that had hung about the place since Mrs. Sedley’s 
death. 

“ I hadn’t thought much about these things, to tell you the 
truth ; I imagined that I believed in immortality, and God 
and religion, but now — ” He paused, with a look of awe on 
his face. “ What do you think, Viola ? I suppose you think 
we were all taught to think in our childhood.” 

“ O' Geoffrey, I don’t know,” Viola exclaimed, thrusting 
her hand through her hair and crouching lower over the fire. 
“ I have been so much shaken lately, I begin to feel that our 
own beliefs will have to be learned and believed all over 
again if they are to be of any use to us. They don't answer 
to one’s call when one is in dire extremity. They leave you — 
1 believe they leave you more lonely and hopeless than pro- 
fessed unbelievers are left in the presence of their dead. J 
can’t tell you what a sense of despair comes to me when I 
look at our mother’s face, peaceful as it is. I can’t hel]) 
thinking of her life, and the utter ruin of it, and the mistake 
of it — and nobody understands! When people console 
me and talk about heaven and all that, I feel as if I would 
rather they told me brutally that there is no hope: that there 
is no ground for cur faiths, no pity for our love, no answer to 
our yearnings,— anything would be better than this silly, hol- 
lo\v consolation that they offer you.” 

Geoffrey looked amazed. “I had no idea ” 

“No, of course you hadn’t,” she interposed hastily. “I 
am frightened of it myself, and yet I feel as if there were 
some faith more real than the faith of our childhood,— only I 
can’t find it.” 

The conversation was an epoch in Geoffrey’s life, and the 
strengthening of a new impetus in Viola’s, ‘it was also the 


DUST TO DUST 


251 


beginning of a friendship on fresh foundations between 
brother and sister, which entirely altered the direction of de- 
velopment of Geoffrey’s character. 

The day of the funeral was cold and damp. Brother and 
sister, standing together at the window of the old schoolroom, 
watched the gloomy procession draw up to the door, the silent 
decor^.,us bustle of black-coated mutes, and then the lifting of 
the coffin into the hearse. 

Some feeling which Viola could not have explained induced 
lier to witness every ghastly detail. 

Among the rows of mist-shrouded trees, the black proces- 
sion moved solemnly to the park gates. Alighting from the 
coach at the churchyard, Viola was carried back in memory 
to her wedding day when she had passed between rows of 
villagers and over garlands of fresh flowers to the clanging 
of the noisy bells. 

In another few minutes they were all in their places, Mr. 
Sedley and his two sons, Philip and Viola, side by side in the 
chancel. 

Every family in the neighbourhood, and all the Upton peo- 
ple, were represented, and among the congregation were the 
Manor House coachmen, Thomas the gardener, and “old 
Willum,” a little more bent, but otherwise just the same as 
of yore. At the sight of him, for the first time, Viola had to 
force back threatening tears. 

But the trial was yet to come. 

The first part of the ceremony over, the procession moved 
out to the ^ey churchyard, and wended its way through the 
tombstones to the open grave. Viola’s heart gave a sick 
throb. 

Cold, gloomy, gruesome ! There was not a gleam of hope, 
not a ray of sunshine or of triumph in the whole depressing 
scene! It seemed as if, in life and in death, Mrs. Sedley were 
alike incapable of evoking such a passionate note. Her Chris- 
tian’s faith and her Ciu*istian’s trust were equally destitute of 
insxjiring force. “ Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust—” Never 
in her life had Viola doubted so profoundly, never had she 
plunged into such an abyss of despair, of religion, of God, as 
when she stood by her mother’s grave and watched the coffin 
with its white wreaths being lowered into the earth. How 
greed V it seemed ; yearning to close up over its prey ! The 
by standers were flinging .flowers onto the coffin: primroses 
and violets, and the first-fruits of the garden. As through the 
mists of a dream, Viola saw familiar faces round the grave: 
Mrs. Evans was there, and Dick, and Sir Philip and Lady 
Dendraith, and Thomas and “old Willum ” and Mr. Pellett 
(how kind of him to come!), and there was Caleb looking sol- 
emn and argumentative in the background. At first sight of 
his face, Viola was seized with a mad impulse to laugh. As 
her eyes turned away from the countenance of the philoso- 


252 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


pher they lighted unexpectedly upon another and only too 
familiar face ! 

She had been told by Mrs. Evans that Harry Lancaster was 
not to be at the funeral, but Mi'S. Evans must have been mis- 
informed, for there he stood, half hidden by Sir Philip’s stal- 
wart form, and partially eclipsed, at intervals, by Mrs. Pel- 
lett’s new funeral bonnet. Viola gave a visible start, and at 
the same instant, as if in grim comment on the nature of all 
human aifection, the first clod of earth fell with a dull thud 
upon the coffin. * 

The sweet flowers lay crushed and stained beneath it. 

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” 

Viola’s eyes contracted with a look of teiTor. 

“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal 
life ” 

She looked up piteously, as if she were asking whether* that 
hope were trustwoi'thy or utterly hollow, as it seemed to her 
to-day in this grey churchyard, amidst the black-gloved 
respectability that hung its head decorously round the grave. 

“ Sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.” 

“Eternal life!” Harry was not more hope-inspired than 
Viola at that moment. 

For that dim defrauded unresponsive spirit, what would 
life eternal have to offer? Growth, discovery, creation? a 
tapestried experience making richer the possibilities of all 
human existence? Not this, but only a stagnant gazing at the 
same monotonous group of images, a repetition ad infinitum 
of the same dull idea ! That surely was not life. 

With all her sanctity, with all her religions enthusiasm, the 
dead woman had no breadth of spiritual outlook ; it was to lit- 
tle local things that her mind held relation; to changing tem- 
poral institutions that she clung, flinging over them the 
threadbare mantle of religion. A life entirely composed of 
spiritual experience, an eternal life in which no small ob- 
servances, or earthly things had part was inconceivable for 
such a nature. 

Less reasoned but none the less profound was Viola’s doubt 
of the promises of the burial service. Oh ! for a moment cf 
unquestioning belief— anything to still the horrible fear that 

P ossessed her as she peered down into the black abyss of 
>eath, and felt the spirit departing from her for ever. 

Harry divined that she was passing through a great mental 
crisis. 

What might the new wave of emotion sw’eep aw^ay in its 
course? These thoughts of death had touched her closely in- 
deed. What if some day she had to stand beside another grave 
and hear that dull thud upon the coflin-lid as the greed v 
earth closed round it? What would she feel then if she had 
allow’ed the beloved and loving soul to go from her, perhaps 
for ever, into the great darkness, still thinking that his love 
wuis but half returned, still grieving and sore at heart because 


m GRIM EARNEST. 


25B 


of her? Would any one of the motives for which she had 
done this thing seem worth a thought at such a moment? 
Ah! no; desperate and heart-stricken, she would feel only 
that she had been false to the one divine thing in life, and 
that her sorrow and hopeless remorse had come too late! 

In the presence of Death she was conscious of the unutter- 
able pathos of all affection, the tragedy that comes sooner or 
later in the train of every intense huinan emotion. 

Harry, watching her as she stood with her eyes fixed upon 
the grave, felt a growing conviction that the battle with Fate 
which he and Sibella were waging for the possession of this 
woman’s soul, had entered upon a new phase. 

She looked up, and their eyes met. 

He drew a long breath. Viola was awake at last; loving to 
lier utmost, hating to her utmost ; reckless and well-nigh des- 
perate. She was ready now for anything. 

They were on their way to the crucial moment. Had she 
sufficient force to hold on to the end? Once resolved, would 
she fling behind her all weak remorse, free herself from the 
clinging remnants of abandoned motives? Would she eschew 
fatal hesitations and prove herself to be made of the stuff 
which produces great deeds of heroism or of crime? would 
she act boldly and consistently as she had resolved, or would 
she show herself the child of her circumstances, stumbling 
fatally under the burden of her sad woman’s heritage of inde- 
cision, fear, vain remorse, untimely scruples? No marvel if 
she did so, but woe to her and to all concerned if she failed at 
the critical moment ! A short time now would decide every- 
thing! 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

IN GRIM EARNEST. 

Yes, she was ready for anything! 

She moved as one in a dream ; the people around her seemed 
like shadows. She spoke, and smiled, and played her 
part among them ; but even as she spoke that grey church- 
yard, v/ith "its open grave, was before her mind’s eye; she 
heard the thud of earth upon the coffin-lid; while the clammy 
mist seemed to be clinging round her, and the words went out 
mournfully over the tombs, ‘‘ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” 

Sad, jiopeless, terrible, seemed the game of life; the thought 
of it ci-eated a recklessness that Viola had never known be- 
fore. Scruples, hesitations, seemed ridiculous in the gaunt 
presence of Death, who mocks at human effort, and cuts short 
the base and the noble at their work with grim impartiality. 
Yet as soon as she left the Manor-House to return to her cliff- 


254 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


side home the daring spirit suddenly departed from her, as 
if by magic. On the instant that she crossed the threshold 
she felt the strange, gloomy, will destroying influence of the 
place descend upon her, pall -like. 

Philip’s dominant spirit seemed to pervade the whole house, 
even in his absence. 

Though he was often away from home he used to appear at 
uncertain hours during the day, and Viola never knew when 
she was likely to be alone. 

Her husband seemed to take a delight in haunting her, and 
in turning up when and where she least expected him. 

He used to come in stealthily and appear at her elbow before 
she knew of his approach. This custom had the effect of mak- 
ing her intensely, miserably nervous. 

After that experience in the west wing she had been very 
easily startled, and now she lived in a perpetual state of 
strain and dread, and had contracted a habit of perpetually 
looking up in expectation of her husband’s panther-like ap- 
proach. 

Her power of resistance and initiative seemed to be charmed 
out of her by the mere atmosphere of the place; it was almost 
as if Philip possessed some mysterious magnetic power, so 
overwhelming was the influence which he asserted over all 
within his reach, especially over those of nervous tempera- 
ment. In spite of the associations of the room in the west 
wing, Viola was still attracted to it; and she felt, moreover, 
that she could not rest until she had found, and put back in 
its place, the precious knife which she had let fall in her terror. 
But she dreaded that Philip might surprise her there again, 
and for that reason put off day after day her intended visit to 
that haunt of shadows. 

When she had almost given up hope of finding an oppor- 
tunity, Philip announced that he was going out for the 
w-hole afternoon, and Viola at once resolved to choose that 
day for her quest. It would not take more than a few min- 
utes to replace the weapon in the oak cabinet ; if she went 
immediately after her husband left the house, surely even he 
could not discover her. 

She watched him out of sight, and then looking nervouslv 
round, she crossed the dark hall, avoiding the smiling eyes of 
the portraits, and passed through the locked door leading to 
the west wing. The stillness of so many empty rooms was 
oppressive. Stepping as quietly as she could, Viola passed 
the closed doors until she came to the Death-chamber, whose 
lock she turned with beating heart. After a moment’s pause 
she entered. 

There was the great black bedstead, sombre and solemn ; 
there stood the oak cabinet with its carved door half open, 
just as it had been left on that dreadful afternoon. 

Viola sickened with reasonless terror. 

She felt as if she must turn and leave her errand unaccom- 


m QBIM BAEJVE8T. ’ 255 

plished. But she resisted the impulse, and went forward with 
her eyes fixed on the floor, seeking the fallen knife. 

Is there some Fate that guides the footsteps of men, and 
maps out their path for them from birth to death? 

Viola had always been convinced that she was thus guided; 
she had given up all expectation of rescue, and looked into the 
eyes of Destiny mournfully and hopelessly. 

Every movement, every act, every thought, was foreordained 
to lead up to misfortune. 

She stooped suddenly and picked up the knife from the 
floor, where it lay just as she had dropped it. She was 
thankful to hold it again in her hands, to know that it was 
safe. 

When last she held it thus, she was battling fiercely against 
herself— against the supreme passion of her fife; and now— 
now the faith had been lost, conscience defeated, hope 
abandoned. She laid the little dagger passionately to her 
lips, looking round with her quick nervous glance, as if dread- 
ing every moment to see the form of her husband looming 
through the dusk. 

She laid the weapon carefully in its hiding-place beside the 
other treasures, locked the cabinet, and with a sigh of relief 
turned away. 

A qualm of fear passed through her as she approached the 
bed, but this time no figure emerged from its shadows. She 
reached the door safely, went out, and locked it. 

Thank Heaven the ordeal was over ! On turning, her 
heart gave a great bound, for she found herself standing face 
to face with Mrs. Barber! She uttered a little cry of dismay, 
and put out her hand to steady herself against the hntel of 
the door. 

“Mrs. Barber,” she said at last, “ what are you doing up 
here?” 

Mrs. Barber set her lips. 

“ I am here, ma’am,” she replied with dignity, “in the per- 
formance of my duty. I came to see that the rooms are kept 
in order.” 

“Oh!” said Viola. 

“ Your tea is waiting for you,” added Mrs. Barber, who felt 
that she had the best of the situation; “ it was taken in half 
an hour ago.” 

“ I will go and have it,” said Viola hurriedly. 

She hastened down the echoing corridor, crossed the hall, 
and shut herself into the little ante-room, where, as Mrs. Bar- 
ber had reproachfully announced, the tea was standing un- 
touched. But the tea had yet longer to wait. 

Viola went down on her knees on the hearth-rug, absently 
taking the poker and goading the already willing little fire 
into a brighter blaze. 

Maria, who was basking in the warmth, set up a loud pur- 
ring, and rubbed herself against the arm of her mistress. 


256 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


Viola knew now for certain what she had often before 
vaguely suspected : that in Philip’s absence she was watched 
by the housekeeper ! 

Again and again she had found reason to fear it, and to- 
day’s instance confirmed the suspicion. There remained not 
the shadow of doubt in her mind that Mrs. Barber had fol- 
lowed her this afternoon to the West Wing; that in fact Mrs. 
Barber was her gaoler. Whom would Philip employ next? 
Possibly the kitchen-maid ! 

The walls of her prison seemed to be coming nearer and 
nearer. Viola was reminded of the gruesome old story of 
the prisoner shut up in a tower whose walls encroached a 
foot each day, till at last they closed in and crushed him to 
death. 

When would the catastrophe arrive? She would rather it 
came at once than keep her thus perpetuallj" on the rack of 
expectation and dread. 

She gave a nervous shudder and looked round the room 
suspiciously, as if fearing that she was not alone even now. 

How did she know that she was free from espionage? The 
whole household might be spies for aught that she knew ! 
There was no escaping Philip’s vigilance. It seemed as if her 
most secret thoughts were at his mercy. 

Feeling nervous and overwrought, Viola was just moving 
into a low chair before the fire, when a faint sound caught 
her ear. 

She started and looked round, expecting to see her hus- 
band, but there was no one in the room. The sound came 
again : a faint tapping on the window-pane. 

Viola’s heart began to beat. She listened anxiously. In 
another second again came the stealthy tap upon the glass. 

It was raining, and there was a slight beating of rain-drops 
on the panes, which Viola tried to think might have been 
mistaken for the other sound ; but when this was repeated a 
third time, she rose, summoning all her courage, and went 
towards the window. There, out in the dusk, she saw a 
man’s face looking in. 

She clutched the nearest chair, turning very white. The 
man signed to her to open the window. She hesitated for 
a moment, and then with a sort of blind courage she went up 
close to it and peered out. 

“ Who is it?” 

“ Don’t be afraid: it is Caleb Foster. Open the window.” 

In an instant the roar of the sea smote loudly on the ear, 
and the soft west wind, and rain were blowing into the fire- 
lit room. 

“What is it? Will you come in, or—?” She hesitated, look- 
ing back nervously over her shoulder. 

“Come out to me,” said Caleb. “I won’t detain you a 
moment. Oh ! it is raining ; you will get wet. ” 


m grjm earnest. 


2m 

“ No matter, no matter.” She snatched up a rug from the 
sofa and stepped out on to the gusty terrace. 

The waves were dragging the stones savagely back and for- 
ward just below. 

“ I was directed to give you this,” said Caleb calmly, bring- 
ing a letter from his pocket, where it had evidently not gained 
in cleanliness or smoothness, “and I was told to bid you be 
of good cheer, and brave and determined, for you have faith- 
ful friends.” 

“ Are you in their confidence?” asked Viola, flushing. 

“I know nothing,” said Caleb; “ private affairs are not my 
business. I am called to deliver a note and a ridiculous mes- 
sage, and I deliver them. If other people take pleasure in 
emotional excesses, I regret it ; but on the principle that the 
individual is at liberty to do what he pleases, on condition 
that he does not encroach upon the liberty of others, I offer 
no obstruction to the errors of our friends. They employ me 
as a messenger— I am willing to oblige; I ask no questions. 
Should you consult me, I might be ready to give my opinion ; 
otherwise I abstain from interference. Good-evening. The 
sooner I am off the better. One word of unasked advice, 
however: don’t act on impulse ; think everything out calmly 
from all sides; count the cost before you take any decided 
step, and don’t fly in the face of the world if you can avoid 

it. Socrates ” But Caleb thought better of it, and retired 

without mentioning what Socrates had to say on this point. 
Viola hastened into the house to read her letter. It was 
from Harry, asking her to meet him at a spot on the downs 
about a quarter of a mile from the coast-guard station, on 
the following afternoon at four o’clock. Sibella was expect- 
ing a visit from Philip at that time, so there would be no dif- 
ficulty. Harry would be at the appointed spot in any case; 
if Viola did not come, he would understand that something 
had happened to prevent her or that she refused to accede to 
his request. Viola pressed her hands to her brow distractedly. 
The time for decision had indeed come ! 

Every fear, prejudice, faith, principle, superstition which 
she had ever known seemed to rush back upon her in a 
mighty flood, forbidding a response to the appeal of this let- 
ter. The secrecy was revolting to her instincts; the deceit 
and underhand plotting seemed intolerable. 

She realised that she-^had nevertheless to choose between 
that and life-long endurance of her present circumstances. 
These left her no alternative. She was startled out of her 
cogitations by the sound of a soft footstep in the corridor. 

She flung the letter into the fire, and stood awaiting her 
husband’s approach. He had returned very soon. Maria 
got up and slunk away. 

“Well, my dear,” he said with his wonted smile. “ What 
have you been doing this afternoon? You are flushed.” 

She put her hands to her cheeks. 


258 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


“I see too that you have not taken your tea.” He looked 
at her keenly. She felt that he would read every secret in 
her eyes. 

“ I am not a great tea-drinker,” she said. 

“ Still, you do generally take it. Have you had visitors?” 

“ No one has been in the house.” * 

“Oh ! have you met someone out of the house?” 

“I saw Caleb,” she answered, struggling against the be- 
numbing sensation of powerlessness which Philip’s presence 
always created in her. 

“ You and Caleb seem to have a great deal in common,” he 
remarked. “Were you out, then, in all this rain?” 

“ Yes, for a short time.” 

“Talking to Caleb?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Would it seem impertinent if I were to enquire the sub- 
ject of your colloquy?” 

She hesitated. 

“ I think you may just as well tell me,” said Philip. “ I 
shall find out if I wish to know.” 

“ Are you going to cross-question Caleb?” 

“ That is a matter of detail,” said Philip. “I only remark 
that if I wish to know I shall know. How have you been 
spending the rest of the afternoon?” 

“ I am tired of answering questions,” she said with a sudden 
flash of rebellion. 

“ Oh ! something up, evidently, this afternoon. That, too, I 
shall find out. Your affairs seem to be getting into a very 
complicated condition, my dear; I can’t say I think you have 
the head to carry through an elaborate system of plots. It 
seems also a httle inconsistent with your upbringing and 
your ‘ principles.’ I suppose, however, it is the natural 
weapon of the weaker vessel. Women take to it by instinct.” 

“By necessity, you might say.” 

“ Prom preference, my dear. I know your adorable sex.” 

Philip established himself in the easy chair and stretched 
himself leisurely. 

“ An unusually good fire,” he said, leaning back and cross- 
ing his legs. “ You have been burning something, I see.” 

Viola looked round with a start, and Philip smiled. 

“ There is a little bit of charred paper sticking to the side 
of the grate.” 

He took the poker and turned it down, and as the heat 
caught it, one could see the lines of handwriting in little 
glowing spots across the note-paper. 

“Put two and two together— H’m ! Did Caleb bring a 
note?” 

“I have already explained that I would rather not ansvrer 
any more questions,” said Viola. “If you are so certain of 
finding out all that you wish to know, why catechise me? 


m GBJM EARNEST. 


259 


Find out what you please; I don’t think I should care very 
much what you did.” 

She was thinking of a grey churchyard and an open grave 
and the thought of it brought a delicious sense of rest. If 
the worst canie to the worst 

“My dear,” said Philip, “excuse my saying so, but you 
are losing your looks.” 

She raised her eyebrows slightly, but did not answer. ‘ ‘ All 
this i^lotting keeps you anxious— it is not becoming.” 

She smiled. She was not sorry to be less pleasing in his 
sight. 

“You do not seem to take much interest in your dress 
either,” he went on. “Now there is no greater folly a wife 
can be guilty of than to neglect her appearance. Her hus- 
band is apt to follow after strange gods.” 

“The stranger the better,” Viola muttered between her 
teeth. 

“You may treat all these matters with disdain, my dear, 
but I can assure you your conduct is most foolish. A man 
expects his wife to make some effort to attract him.” 

Viola was silent. 

“To be frank, my dear, you have in every way turned out 
unsatisfactory; as an investment (so to put it) I may say 
that you are, in point of fact, more or less of a fraud— par- 
don my crudeness. I bargained for a wife who would be- 
have as other wives behave, and also I naturally expected 
that she would do what you have hitherto failed to do — pro- 
vide the family with an heir.” 

“ A duty and a privilege indeed !” Viola observed. 

“ Why you sneer I know not,” said Philip. “ I could have 
had women by the dozen who would have been only too de- 
lighted to fill your position, at any price. Perhaps you will 
understand that I feel a little ‘ sold ’ under the circumstances.” 

“I understand only too well everything that has to do 
with our fatal marriage. Why won’t you let me go?” 

“And have a scandal attached to‘ my name! No, thank 
you, that won’t suit me at all. It will suit me better to bring 
you to reason. I have tried fair means, and they have failed ; 
now I shall try foul. I am tired of all these childish con- 
spiracies with your former lover and his chere amie, who, you 
may not be aware, is carrying on a flirtation with that gay 
Lothario at the same time that she makes love to me.” 

‘ ‘ To you.T 

“Yes, my innocent one, to me.” 

Viola looked at him coldly. “You are very clever,” she 
s.aid, “but there are some women whom you could not un- 
derstand if you studied them for a thousand years. Mrs. 
Lincoln is one of them.” 

“ Then you understand this Sibylline creature?” 

“No; but I am not so hopelessly at fault as you are, for at 
least I am avmre that I do not understand her,” 


260 


THE Wim OF AZBAEL. 


“Well, if a man of the world doesn’t know when a woman 
wants to flirt with him. he ought to be ashamed of himself.” 

Viola could only look at her husband in bewilderment. 
Why was he telling her this? Did he really believe what he 
said, or was it to arouse in her mind distrust of Sibella? 
Surely Philip could not be attempting to excite her jealousy ! 

He was too clever for that, yet what could be his motive 
for such assertions? If Sibella had given any reason for 
them, it was certainly for some object connected with Viola’s 
own fate. Sibella in love with Philip was unthinkable. 
Harry’s letter said that Philip was expected to call at Fir 
Dell to-morrow afternoon. What did t& mean ? Viola was 
puzzling over these complications, when Philip broke the 
silence once more. 

“Now, my dear, I should like you to understand things a 
little. I have stood a great deal of nonsense from you, know- 
ing how absurdly you were brought up, and how ignorant 
you were of the ways of the world. But it is really time that 
you knew a little more. Perhaps you are not aware that be- 
fore our marriage my father advanced a large sum of money 
to your father to enable him to pay his debts and to stay on 
at the Manor-House, which otherwise he would have had to 
leave. Liberal settlements were made on on, and, in fact, 
your father — knowing my infatuation — availed himself of 
the opportunity to make a good haul. I, of course, thought 
so charming a bride ample indemnification. I believe that 
your father did pay some of his debts, and he continued to 
live at the Manor-House, but he also began to contract fresh 
debts, on the strength of his alliance with oui' family, and it 
is morally certain that we shall never see a penny of that 
money again. You will pardon my remarking that, all things 
considered, your father got decidedly the better of us.” 

“It would be more reasonable to complain of these matters 
to him, then,” said Viola. “ I, having been, not the seller, but 
the thing sold, can scarcely be called to account for its own- 
er’s delinquencies. If you allowed yourself to be imposed 
upon, you have no one but yourself to blame. Such acci- 
dents will happen even to the cleverest of purchasers.” 

“Still, I think that the matter concerns you more closely 
than you are disposed to allow,” said Philip. “ If a man buys 
a pointer who will not point, he has either to send him back 
to where he came from, or to train him into better ways — 
with the help of the whip if necessary.” 

Viola’s eyes flashed. 

“You can go too far with me,” she said. 

“ Possibly ; but up to now it seems I have not gone far 
enough.” 

“ I don’t see what remains for you to do as regards insult 
and insolence.” 

“Oh! I assure you we are only beginning. I have been 


A PERILOUS PROJECT. 


261 


playing hitherto, and playing very badly. In future it shall 
be in grim earnest. I shall exact what is due to the utter 
most farthing.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A PERILOUS PROJECT. 

Adrienne Lancaster disturbed husband and wife at their 
tete-a-tete. 

She was in great anxiety, for she had just learned that her 
mother stood in imminent danger of losing the little pittance 
on which they had hitherto been struggling to hve and to 
keep up appearances. What was to become of them if the 
blow did fall, Adrienne dared scarcely conjecture. Her 
motherliad been urging her to accept Bob Hunter’s proposal^ 
resorting to tears, commands, reproaches, and finally to 
“wrestlings in prayer” even in her daughter’s presence. 
Adrienne was looking alarmingly ill and worried. 

“ Everything seems to come at once,” she said; “ not only 
have I all these burdens to bear, but Harry also is a great 
anxiety.” She explained that her brother had been going 
perpetually to Mrs. Lincoln’s, who of course had a very evil 
influence upon him : and what appeared so alarming was that 
he seemed perfectlj" infatuated and would hear no word 
against her. 

“ At this very moment,” said Adrienne, despairingly, “ he 
is sitting in her library at Fir Dell, listening to one knows not 
what wickedness and follj^.” 

Had Adrienne been present at Fir Dell, she would have 
been astonished indeed. It was worse even than she thought. 

“ I wish to Heaven we could do this without so much plot- 
ting and concealment,” Harry was saying. “ Viola hates it, 
and I fear at any moment she may "do something desperate 
which will upset all our plans. 

“ The sooner we make our attempt, the better,” said Sibella; 
“but for my part I have no scruple about using the only 
weapons left us by the enemy. A prisoner has to employ 
what means he can get, if he wants to escape. If he takes his 
gaoler honestly into his confidence, his chances of regaining 
his freedom are, to say the least of it, inconsiderable. Picture 
to yourself a man bound hand and foot, and at the same time 
cunningly persuaded by those who have bound him that he 
must make no deceitful or underhand attempt to liberate 
himself. That man is an idiot if he listens to such teaching; 
he must try anything that offers itself -subterfuge, strata- 
gem, what you will— in order to overcome the brute-force 


262 THE WING OF AZRAEL. 

which has been used against him. I wish you could persuade 
Viola of this. ” 

“ I can never persuade her,” Sibella answered. “ The grim 
necessities of her position may force her to use distasteful 
tools, but she will never lose her scruples. She will never see 
that these hesitations, this half-heartedness, in the struggle 
for freedom tend as much as the direct force of the enemy to 
make it unattainable. But this is the work of centuries; it 
is in the blood; arguments are unavailing. We must trust 
to the force of the personal impetus in Viola’s case. She will 
never change her feeling rapidly enough through the suasion 
of ideas. What are ideas, in the face of prejudices? Stars at 
midday !” 

“Do you think she will keep the appointment to-morrow 
afternoon?” asked Harry. 

“ I would not count too surely upon it. Her notions are at 
jiresent elastic. She may at any moment have a relapse and 
determine to do her duty, as she calls it, to the end. If you 
have any news to tell me, come to the beach below ni}- house 
to-morrow morning. Come in any case, as I may have some- 
thing to say to you. Try and keep your sister away from 
Viola if you can. She is a dangerous foe to us. We could 
scarcely have one more formidable.” 

Harry shook his head gloomily. 

Everything seemed going wrong. The pending family mis- 
fortune was not only most unlucky in itself, but it happened 
at a most unlucky time. Adrienne seemed at her wits’ end 
to know what to do. She said she would try and find em- 
ployment in teaching if the v;orst came to the worst. 

If it did come to the worst, Harry felt that he could not 
desert them : and then, what was to become of Viola? 

It was nevertheless decided between him and Sibella that 
plans for the flight should be made on the following after- 
noon, as if nothing had occurred. They could be altered if 
necessary, but might as w^ell be arranged. Sibella vras to b(' 
informed at once if Viola agreed. Viola and Harry ^vere to 
leave the country as quickly as possible, making up their 
minds to face all possibilities, beginning life over again, and 
taking their fate in their own hands.” 

“ Don’t forget at any time that you did decide to take the 
3'isk,” said Sibella. “Viola risks more than you do; and 
whatever troubles you may have to weather, they nmst in- 
evitably faU harder upon her. She gives up everything for 
your sake. Always remember that, for the time for feeling 
what you have sacrificed begins. I need scarcely tell vou 
this; but even the best of men are sometimes forgetful.” " 

“ I hope I shall not be forgetful in this matter, ’’"said Harry, 
gravely; “ though I am not among the best of men.” 

Sibella undertook to do all she could to detain Philip next 
day as long as possible, though she felt it diffleut to count 
upon iiis movements with certainty. She harboured a. suspi^ 


A PERILOUS PROJECT. 


263 


cion that he had guessed their whole plan, and was quietly 
watching them, ready at the right moment to frustrate it. 
There was something about his expression and manner that 
was not reassuring. He never breathed a word hinting at 
suspicion, but Sibella feared that he did suspect; though how 
nearly his guesses fitted the facts, she could not tell. On that 
day when they had met on the beach, a challenge had been 
tacitly given and accepted between them. Philip Dendraith 
was not the man to forget that challenge, and he knew that 
Sibella’s memory w^as at least as long as his. 

They were thus in a state of secret war ; meeting always 
with compliments and smiles, fencing with one another with 
amazing skill. 

“ We never tiro,” Sibella used to say cheerfully. “ He is 
resolved and I am resolved. I am not like Viola. I fight 
such an adversary with the first best weapon. I will oppose 
force with fraud till justice has delivered us. What do I 
care? Injury and insult to a suffering sister shall not be 
allowed to succeed for want of a httle frank transgression. I 
will fool him to the top of his bent if I can, as he would fool 
me. What man can stand flattery? I flatter him. Some 
times I think I have made way, but possibly his submission 
is only a ruse to deceive me; one can never tell. Still, the 
man is vain ; the heel of Achilles ! He is used to the homage 
of women: that gives me a handle. If he thought I was 
falling a victim to his fascinations, I believp even Ms astute- 
ness would fail him. Well, we shall see. Everything hangs 
on the next few days, and much on to-morrow’s interview 
being safely achieved and the arrangements well made. Give 
Viola written directions in case of mistakes, and make sure 
she understands them thoroughly. And don’t be so excited 
at seeing her again, that you forget all prudence. Philip may 
have discovered Caleb’s visit, for aught we know. You can’t 
be too careful. Play your part bravely and cautiously. 
Everything depends on trifles in such matters. I shall be 
anxiously thinking of you, while I and my visitor will enter- 
tain one another with our usual flow of badinage and com- 
pliment. There are few things I would not do in order to de- 
feat this man.” Sibella clasped her hands, and her eyes 
sparkled. “ A fierce struggle lies before us now. See if (as 
Pope says) “ you don’t find me equivocating pretty genteelly !” 


264 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE. 

The force of circumstances prevailed. 

Mrs. Dixie, overpowered by anxiety and vexation, became 
sufficient! ill to work upon her daughter’s fears ; and when 
next morning the dreaded blow fell, Adrienne was not only 
crushed by the misfortune, but thoroughly alarmed at her 
mother’s condition. 

The old lady was now perpetually alluding to the work- 
house as the final destination of the Lancaster family, and 
she gave Adrienne to understand that this declension or their 
fortunes was entirely due to her undutiful obstinacy about 
Bob Hunter. 

Mrs. Dixie even descended to particulars regarding their 
future existence in that last refuge for the destitute. 

Adrienne, knowing that in truth they were quite penni- 
less, and that her mother’s life depended upon careful nurs- 
ing, was almost in despair. At this crisis Fate decreed that 
Bob Hunter should appear again at the cottage to repeat his 
periodic proposal. , Adrienne, tired out wdth trouble and per- 
plexity, ended by accepting it. As Harry said bitterly, it 
w’as a foregone conclusion. 

From that moment Mrs. Dixie began to recover, and Bob 
Hunter pirouetted in triumph. 

It was far from being the happiest time of Adrienne’s hfe. 
She thought of Sibella, and wondered what she would say 
when she heard of the engagement. 

“ But what is that woman to me?” she angrily asked her- 
self. 

On that same eventful morning Adrienne went over to 
Upton Castle to announce the news. She was anxious not to 
allow it to reach her friend through village gossip. 

Viola’s congratulations were not effusive. 

“ Adrienne,” she exclaimed, on first realizing the nature of 
the announcement, “oh! how could you be so mad?” 

Adrienne had not at this time mentioned the misfortune 
that had befallen them. She coloured painfully. 

“ Bob is a good fellow at heart, and I do think it is all for 
the best, and I mean to do my utmost to make him happy. 
And then,— well, you know, there is my mother ill, and re- 
quiring all sorts of things we can’t give her, and she feels .so 
terribly our position. You know it is as we feared. We got 
a letter from the lawyer this morning; well, in short, things 
could not be worse.” 

“O Adrienne! I am grieved; what a curse the want of 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE. 


265 


money seems to be ! And you have to sacrifice yourself be- 
cause of this.” 

“ Am I to watch my mother dying, and know that there is 
nothing before us in the future but genteel starvation?— in- 
deed, I don’t see how it can be even genteel ?” 

“I think,” said Viola, growing very white, “that it is bet- 
ter to be in your grave than alive and— a woman.” 

Adrienne looked shocked. 

“Oh no, dear Viola; a woman always has a noble and a 
happy sphere in her home, wherever it may be; we must not 
take despairing views of hfe, even in the darkest hours.” 

“ This ought not to be,” cried Viola. “ Can’t your brother 
help you? can't you work? can’t you ” 

“ And my mother ill, our home broken up, and not a penny 
to call our own? After all, I am going to do my duty to Bob, 
and I always think it is a woman’s fault if her home isn’t 
happy.” 

Adrienne did not meet with much more encouragement 
when she told her brother of her engagement. 

“ I believe it to be my duty,” she said apologetically. 

‘ ‘ Oh, in that case ” he shrugged his shoulders. “I have 

sometimes wondered how these things come about; now I 
see: the process seems very simple.” Presently he laid his 
hauJ on her shoulder, softening. “ So the burden is laid upon 
you,” he said, with a sigh; “ why can’t I bear it instead?” 

She shook her head. 

“That is impossible, as you know. Don’t grieve, dear 
Harry; 1 am not unhappy. I feel that lam doing right, and 
that I shall have strength to perform my task.” 

Harry thought that his sister had had enough tasks to per- 
form already. What she needed was the radiance of a great 
joy to warm and expand her whole being. Always in the 
shade, she was becoming pale and poor, like a flower grown 
in a cellar. In course of time she would perhaps become a 
second Mrs. Evans, busily adding to the depression of an al- 
ready low-spirited world. 

“ I am satisfied that it is my duty,” said Adrienne. 

“ Oh, confound this everlasting ‘ duty ’ ! ” Harry exclaimed 
irritably. Adrienne did not at once reply. She had noticed 
that her brother had become quick-tempered, not to say mo- 
rose, of late, and she wondered if Mrs. Lincoln had anything 
to do with this change for the worse. 

“ You may say ‘ confound duty!’ dear Harry,” said Adri- 
enne; “but you know that you feel its sacred call in your 
heart, and dare not disobey it any more than I dare to do 
so.” 

“Oh! don’t I?” cried Harry, who in his present mood re- 
garded “duty” with unmitigated acrimony and ill-will. “I 
would dare to do anything. No good comes of prudence, or 
duty either, that I can see. ” 

Adrienne was much concerned at her brother’s frame of 


266 THE WING OF AZRAEL. 

mind, and again put it down to the evil influence of Mrs. 
Lincoln. 

“I wish I could get you to look upon my engagement in a 
different light, dear Harry,” she pleaded. 

‘‘ Pray mention the light,” said Harry affably, “and I will 
see it in that at once. ” ^ 

She shook her head. ' 

“ Don’t you recognise that Duty ” 

“ Look here, if you mention that word again,” he said, “ I 
shall emigrate.” 

“No, no,” interposed Adrienne hastily. “You must see 
that for a woman ” 

“Timbuctoo or the Wild West,” Harry murmured threat- 
eningly. 

“A "woman’s lot in life is different from a man’s,” Adri- 
enne persisted. 

“Very,” said Harry; “she can’t go off at a moment’s no- 
tice to Timbuctoo.” 

“ Upon her shoulders are laid the beautiful and sacred cares 
of married life,” pursued Adrienne. “I believe that upon 
these rest the very foundations of society.” 

“Once upon a time,” said Harry grimly, “it was the cus- 
tom to build a living creature into the wmlls of every city, for 
otherwise it was thought the city would not stand. This 
premature interment, with such unpleasantness as might en- 
sue to the chosen victims, was intended to make firm and 
solid the foundations of society. Perhaps it did. The foun- 
dations, at any rate, seem to be exceedingly solid and firm. 
Wlien is the marriage to be?” 

“As soon as possible. Bob wants it at once, and mother 
too. We should not go away for more than a few days, and 
mother would come to us almost immediately. We thought 
the wedding might be in ten days. Of course you will give 
me away.” 

“I should have thought a grown-up woman might be con- 
sidered able to give herself away ; but if you wish it — in ten 
days,” he repeated, thoughtfully, to himself. After that he 
fell into a reverie, from which nothing could permanently 
rouse him. Even when Adrienne recurred to the topic of 
“ duty,” he let it pass unchallenged. 

That this mildness was the result of preoccupation was 
proved a little later in the day, when he and Adrienne strolled 
together to the beach, Harry flinging himself at full length 
against the pebble ridge below Fir Dell and throwing stones 
into the water. Deceived by his previous calmness, Adrienne 
had been trying to show him how mistaken he was in his 
views of life, and especially in his interpretation of the natu- 
ral destiny of woman. 

“ Her most sacred duty dear Harry ” 

Damn 

The monosyllable was breathed sotto voce, but with sup- 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE. 


267 


pressed ferocity, into the shingles. The culprit then hastily 
pulled his hat over his eyes, and rolled over several times tiil 
lie was out of earshot. 

Adrienne had not caught the smothered “ language of im 
precation,” but she was none the less alarmed at her brother’s 
eccentric behaviour. He continued to lie at full length on the 
stones with his cap pulled over his eyes in a manner that 
seemed to Adrienne to denote a shocking state of self-aban- 
donment. What had come to him? She looked up to the 
distant castle for inspiration, but the long rows of high win- 
dows only reminded her of another strange and perturbed 
spirit imprisoned therein. 

Suddenly Harry sat bolt upright, his cap still very much 
awry and his hair extravagantly ruffled. Adrienne followed 
the direction in which he was gazing. 

A figure was seen descending the pathway through the pine 
woods from Fir Dell. 

Harry shaded his eyes, and strained them anxiously. 

“Who is it?” 

“Mrs. Lincoln.” 

“ Oh, let me go!” exclaimed Adrienne, hastily jumping up. 

Harry gave a grim smile. It amused him that his sister 
shrank from meeting a woman who had dared the enmity of 
the world rather than remain in the position which Adrienne 
was about to accept deliberately, with her eyes open. 

“You had better come and speak to her,” said Harry. 
“ She will enlarge your mind.” 

“ I will never willingly enter that woman’s presence again,” 
Adrienne cried. “Good-bye, I am going home; won’t you 
come too? Do come.” 

“ I want to see Mrs. Lincoln,” Harry. answered. 

Adrienne sorrowfully left him, and when she was alone, 
she gave way to a fit of quiet lady-like weeping in a neat 
methodical nianner, drying her eyes and putting aside her 
handkerchief in good time before reaching the village. 

Meanwhile Harry and Sibella had met and were moving 
together closer to the sea. 

“It is as we feared,” said Harry. “ The blow has fallen: 
my mother and sister are penniless.” 

Sibella drew a long deep breath. After a pause she said : 

“ And your sister is engaged to be married to Bob Hunter; 
you need not tell me. I am grieved. Fortunately your sister 
has an obedient soul. The marriage-service, strange to say, 
will reassure her. For her own sake this is devoutly to be 
wished. But how does all this bear on your own affairs ? 
Must you wait till after the wedding ?” 

Harry explained that it was to take place in ten days, (md 
that he must of course be present. He felt that he ought also 
to stay with his mother for the few days till the couple re- 
turned to their home. After that Mrs. Dixie would go to 


268 


THE WINO OF AZRAEL. 


them. Bob happily had accepted his mother-in-law with a 
light heart. 

It was accordingly arranged that Harry should go to 
town as soon as the bride and bridegroom came to their 
home; that he should return next day, not to Upton, but to a 
little place further along the coast called Shepherd’s Nook. 
Thence he could easily walk along the shore to the castle, 
reaching it after dark, at the time appointed. Sibella was to 
obtain from Caleb the loan of his boat, the very boat in v hich 
Viola and Harry had made that other less momentous jour- 
ney before her marriage, and in that they w^ere to put off 
under cover of the darkness, and evade pursuit if any should 
be offered. 

They would land and take the train to Southampton, and 
thence get over to France if possible on the same night. 

The details of this project were further discussed, and all 
things arranged subject to Viola's consent, even to the day 
and hour. 

“ This unexpected delay worries me,” said Harry ; “ it seems 
ill-omened.” 

“ It is not very long,” Sibella answered cheerinly. “ Time 
wiU soon pass,— sixteen days: why, it is nothing.” 

‘‘ One does not 'know what may happen in sixteen days.” 

The twilight was creeping around them, the weaves beating 
monotonously on the patient shore. A belated gull flashed 
overhead, uttering its shrill cry. 

There was an expression of feverish anxiety in Harry’s face, 
as he raised his eyes towards the dim outlines of the Castle, 
which the darkness was gradually obliterating. 

‘‘Caleb said this morning that though it maybe good to 
resist evil laws and conventions for the sake oi others, the 
rebel himself inevitably gets trampled on, and generally by 
those whom he is trying to rescue. Are we preparing mar- 
tyrdom for Viola ?” 

“ Eemember what she suffers now,” said Sibella. 

“ If I but knew what these slow endless days would bring 
about:” 

“ If we knew all that was coming in our life, how many of 
us would consent to live it out ? You will see her this after- 
noon, remember.” 

“ If she is not there ” 

‘‘I think she will be there,” said Sibella. 

The big stable-yard clock stiaick four. The appointment 
was at half-past four. 

Philip sat in the library writing letters ; he had said nothing 
about his intention of calling at Fir Dell, and looked as if he 
had settled down for the afternoon, Viola, like an uneasy 
spirit, wandered from room to room, and from Avindow to 
window; unable to keep still for a moment. It Avas a grey 
afternoon, and the mist was streaming inland from the sea. 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE. 269 

Maria, purring before the ante-room fire, bade placid defiance 
to the gloom, and looked the emblem of contentment. 

“ O Maria, why can’t I take things as you do, you sensi- 
ble animal?” Maria blinked. ' ‘ He has hurt us both, but you 
purr before the fire and make the best of things, while T let 
the thought of it eat into me and drive me mad. Foolish, 
isn’t it, dear? You are a model of what a reputable cat— or 
wife— should be, and the more there are who follow in your 
footsteps, the fewer the broken hearts. Wise Maria!” 

Viola was down before the hearth with her arm round the 
sleepy animal, who purred a soft acknowledgment of the at- 
tention. But a sudden step on the carpet made the cat dart 
deftly away to hide behind the sofa, wide awake now, and 
wary. 

“ i am going out for a short time this afternoon,” said Philip. 
“I hope you won’t feel lonely in my absence.” This was said 
with an abundant display of white teeth. 

“ No, thank you; not at all.” 

“You had better fill up the tedious interval till my return 
with a round of calls.” 

“I don’t think I have any calls to pay.” 

“Excuse me: Mrs. Russel Courtenay reproaches you every 
time we meet for not having been to see her ; and I am sure 
there is a long-standing debt to Mrs. Pellett. I will order the 
carriage for you.” 

“Oh no, please don’t,” said Viola. “I can get on another 
day or two without seeing Mrs. Courtenay or Mrs. Pellett.” 

“If you don’t care to do it for your own sake, you might 
remember that your neglect of social duties is a great handi- 
cap to me.” 

“Some other day I will call,” she said. 

“Well, I warn you not to be up to any mischief; you will 
regret it if you do.” And with that he left her. " Did he 
know ? 

Viola hastened upstairs for her hat, and on the threshold 
of her room she encountered Mrs. Barber. 

“What do you want ?” Viola asked sharply. 

“ Excuse me. Ma’am; only to know if Maria was with you.” 

“ Yes, of course she was with me: you know she always is 
at this time. Be kind enough not to intrude on such trifling 
pretexts another time.” 

The mistress of the house was evidently not to be allowed to 
leave without the housekeeper’s knowledge. Would it be wise 
to go at all ? Viola weighed the matter in her mind carefully, 
and came first to one decision and then to another. Inclina- 
tion insisted clamorously that the appointment should be kept. 
She trembled with happiness at the thought of it. But a 
thousand fears and scruples still pulled the other way. At 
last she fiung them all aside in desperation, and made a blind 
resolve that, follow what might, she would go. There was 
danger and misery in each direction ; that fact must be faced. 


270 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


Boldness might best solve the problem after all. Yes; come 
weal or woe, she would keep the appointment. She deter 
mined to leave the house by the door of the West Wing, as 
that led into the terrace and was more secluded than the front 
entrance. She might in that way escape the vigilance of her 
gaoler. 

She glided down the stairs in her black cloak, ghostly and 
white with excitement. At the foot stood once m.ore the 
sentinel of Fate,— Mrs. Barber! Viola gave a start and an 
angry exclamation. 

‘‘ Going out. Ma’am ? On such an afternoon? Do you really 
think. Ma’am— excusing the liberty— as it’s quite conducive ?” 

“Be good enough to let me judge for myself without inter- 
ference,” said Viola, too excited to smile at the housekeeper’s 
English. 

“You will at least take an umbrella, then,” urged Mrs. 
Barber. 

Viola accepted the suggestion and hurried out. 

Either she must have lost her head in her excitement or she 
had in good earnest resolved to dare evei’ything and take the 
consequences; for without finding out whether or not Mrs. 
Barber were watching her still, she walked straight towards 
the appointed spot in the direction of the coast-guard station. 
It seemed to Viola as she moved rapidly across the wet grass, 
with the rain in her face, that she was being driven by some 
external power to her fate, and that she had nothing to do 
with her own act or its consequences. The downs stretched 
far away, with their veil of rain drifting with the wind, the 
sea-sound mourning on for ever. These wild bleak stretches 
were like the Eternity into which the wanderer felt that she 
was hastening ; the sense of personal identity half swallowed 
up in some larger sense which made her despairingly resigned 
to whatever might be on its way to her through the mist. 
Excitement ran so high that it had risen to a sort of unnatural 
calm ; she was in the centre of a moral cyclone ; everything 
was unreal, vision -like; the whole §cene and action appeared 
as a dream from which she must awake to regain the power 
of will. As she came in sight of the appointed spot in a hol- 
low of the downs behind the shelter of a group of furze bushes, 
she strained her eyes, in hope of discerning the expected figure. 
Expected as it was, however, she felt a thrill of joyful and un- 
reasonable surprise when she discerned what she looked for. 

From motives of prudence, Harry did not advance to meet 
her, but when she came drifting up to him, shadow-like through 
the now driving rain, he held out his arms without a word or 
a moment’s hesitation and drew her into his embrace. At his 
touch, something in her heart seemed to snap, the strain 
yielded and she broke into deep convulsive sobs, shaking her 
from head to foot, but perfectly silent. 

He soothed her very quietly, very tenderly; saying little 
for he saw how overstrained she was. He drew her head 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE. 


271 


down on his shoulder protectingly, and made her rest there ; 
Viola absolutely passive as if she had lost all power of will. 
The sobs gradually ceased, and she lay resting quietly exactly 
as he held her, listening still in a dream to his words of com- 
fort and love and hope. He told her that in a very little while 
the misery would be over ; that for her sake he v/as ready to 
face anything ; the whole world was before them, and hard as 
it was, and cruel as it was, so long as they loved one another 
they might defy it. He explained the plan which he and 
Sibella had made, and finally he suggested in a quiet matter- 
of-fact tone the day and the hour for the flight. 

She lay quite still listening to him, the tumult and feeling 
of guilt all gone, and in their place a sense of peace and of 
deep, almost fathomless joy. 

Adi around them across the downs the rain was sweeping, 
the Avind rising each moment and lashing the sea into angrier 
storm. The gloom and passion of the day seemed like an echo 
of their own fate. 

“ Come Avhat may, these moments have been ours,” he said, 
looking down into her eyes, which were dark and soft with 
the ecstasy of self-abandonment. “You will hesitate no 
longer.” 

“ No longer,” she answered; “ when I am with you it seems 
right and simple: the sin of it vanishes. I feel that nothing 
is of any value without you. I leave behind me now no Ioa^- 
ing heart to be crushed ; with you I fear nothing. For you I 
Avould do or risk anything. Are you satisfied now ?” 

His arms tightened round her, and their lips met in a long, 
never-satisfied kiss. 

At that instant, as if in sympathy, the wind leapt up with a 
fresh gust and swept furiously over the downs. One could 
hear, the next minute, the breaking of a gigantic Avave against 
the cliff’s foot, the scattering of the spray, and then the hoarse 
resurgance into the deep. To Viola it all spoke in parables. 

“If anything happens to part us ” she said dreamily. 

“Don’t talk'of such a possibility.” 

“Still, there will always be the memory of to-night; it will 
be enough for me even — even if we see each other for the last 
time. It seems to me that now I have known the supremest 
earthly joy, and what more can one ask for ?” 

She spoke dreamily, peacefully. 

“You must not talk about seeing each other for the last 
time,” cried Harry. “I can’t face such a thought. I am 
greedy for happiness. As for you, you need it as a fioAver 
needs sunshine, and I mean that you shall have it.” 

Suddenly, as if to dispute the statement, a human voice 
rang above the sounds of AAund and rain; the dream abruptly 
ended, and Viola and Harry found themselves confronted by 
a pair of startled, bewildered blue eyes. 

Dorothy! ^ ^ , 

The girl turned alternately very red and very white, and 


272 


THE WINQ OF AZRAEL.\ 


began to stammer some confused remarks about coming to call 
at the Castle — Mrs. Barber had directed her here— she was 
very sorry — didn’t know — couldn’t imagine, — and then fairly 
broke down. Neither Harry nor Viola looked in the least de- 
gree like a surprised culprit. 

“You know our secret,” said Harry, after a significant 
pause; “ wliat do you mean to do with it ?” 

Dorothy burst into tears, 

Viola stood beside her, looking troubled, but scarcely realis- 
ing yet what had happened. Strangely enough, the idea of 
the secret being disclosed did not distress her much. She had 
been so deeply hurt and wounded, so miserable and desperate, 
that a public scandal and even Philip’s vengeance did not fill 
her with extreme terror. It was just another misery that 
bad to be borne, that was all. But when it became clear that 
she had lost Dorothy’s friendship, the familiar pain began to 
creep to its old resting-place in her heart. To lose the girl’s 
love and respect, to fall from the giddy pinnacle where the 
little hero- worshipper had placed her, down, down to the low- 
est depths of infamy and shame— this was to Viola beyond all 
comparison more painful than the prospect of the scorn of all 
the world put together. 

As for poor Dorothy, she was weeping as if her heart would 
break. 

If every human creature, man, woman, and child, had ac- 
cused her idol of this sin, Dorothy would have contemptu- 
ously denied the aamsation. 

Viola could do no wrong — and now ! 

It was unbearable, unbelievable. The storm of tears broke 
out afresh. 

“ Have I not warned you, Dorothy ? Have I not told you 
that I was capable of wickedness ” 

“ This is no wickedness,” interposed Harry. 

“ — And you would not believe me.” 

“But I never thought of such a thing as— as this!” she 
cried tearfully. “ Oh, how could you, how could you!” 

“ If you knew our story and understood things a little bet- 
ter,” said Harry, “you would perhaps come to see that your 
friend is true to herself in acting in defiance of the world. 
Anyhow, it is not for you to reproach or to judge her. Have 
you called yourself a Christian from your cradle without 
learning that ?” 

Dorothy swung round upon him like a tigress. 

“It is you, it is you, you wicked, deceitful man! How 
dare you tempt her to do wrong? I think men are all fiends.” 
Dorothy was almost choked with passion. “It is all your 
fault, every bit of it— you are a villain, a black-hearted vil- 
lain. I always hated you ! I believe you are the Devil!” 

“Whether or not I am the Devil,” said Harry, smiling 
slightly, “I certainly am the person to blame in this matter, 
if blame there be. I should like to know how you intend to 


THE WHIRLPOOL OF FATE. 


273 


use your knowledge of our secret. If you mean to divulge it, 
it is only fair to prepare us.” 

“Oh, let her tell everything!” Viola exclaimed. “What 
does it matter? There is no re^ hope for the future. Let the 
end come quickly.” 

For the first time Dorothy allowed her eyes to rest on her 
friend’s face. 

“ Do you repent, are you sorry?” she asked plaintively. 

“No,” Viola answered with decision. “I am glad. You 
will soon forget me, Dorothy; you will find fhat, after all, 
Mrs. Pellett is a safer person to have to do with, and you will 
cease to grieve for me.” 

“I hate Mrs. Pellett!” cried Dorothy ferociously, “and I 
never was so miserable in all my life — never. I wish you were 
dead and good— rather than this ! Why didn’t you die while 
you were good?” 

“Rather, why was I ever born?” cried Viola impetuously. 
“What does God want with creatures foredoomed to mis- 
fortune, foredoomed to sin, foredoomed to be torn in pieces 
between faith and doubt, impulse and tyranny, duty and pas- 
sion? Why does He plant feelings strong as death in our 
hearts, and then call it sin when we yield to them? Why does 
He fling wretched, struggling, bewildered creatures into an 
ocean in full storm, and then punish them fiercely because 
they don’t make way against it ? It is cruel, it is absurd, it is 
unreasonable ! He drives his creatures to despair ; He asks 
what is impossible, and He punishes like a fiend. God can 
never have suffered Himself or He would not be so hard and 
unmerciful! No one is fit to be God who has not suffered.” 

She stopped breathleiss. 

Dorothy, with the tears still glistening in her eyes, was 
gazing at hei’ fallen idol in alarmed bewilderment. 

A vicar's daughter might well tremble at such an outburst ! 
She began, however, to perceive the desperation in Viola’s 
mood, and to recognise that there were secrets in her life 
which had brought her to her present sin and disobedience. 
She had been sorely beset and tempted. What right had any 
one to judge ? She would repent and return to her duty ; she 
was too sweet and noble to forget it for long. Dorothy felt 
her heart beginning to overflow again towards the beloved 
of her soul. 

“Oh, tell me you repent,” she said imploringly, “only 
tell me you repent.” 

“ I do not repent,” said Viola, with a sad little head-shake. 

“Well, I can’t help it!” exclaimed Dorothy, going up to 
her and flinging her arms round her neck: “good or bad, 
right or wrong, I love you, and I can’t stop loving you. You 
are always my dear beautiful one, and I will never desert 
you, let them say what they will. I Avill defy them all. If 
you have done wrong you will be very miserable, and ;5rou 


274 


THE WJNG OF AZliAEL. 


may want a, friend when he deserts you ; then you will send 
for me and I will come to you. I don’t care !” 

Dorothy went on apostrophising an imaginary audience 
who were remonstrating: ‘‘I don’t care; she is more worth 
loving, sinning or not sinning, than all the rest of you, with 
your virtues put together! If Mrs. Pellett says nasty things 
I will— I will trample upon her,” pursued Dorothy, grindin.v 
her teeth. 

“ 0 my dear faithful little friend,” Viola interposed sadl}', 
“you don’t know what you are saying. We can never see 
one another again after people begin to speak ill of me. They 
would speak ill of you too if we were ever to meet.” 

Her voice trembled, and her kiss was long and tender and 
sad as a kiss of farewell in which there is no hope. 

Dorothy returned it passionately. 

“ It is not the last, it shall not be the last ! You will repent 
and everything will blow over. But if you don’t, I shall stick 
to you and love you always, whatever you may do. Eemem- 
ber that if all the world deserts you, if Mr. Lancaster deserts 
you, I shall never desert you. You don’t know me; you 
don’t know how I love you. To-day when I found this out I 
was so miserable only because I loved you. But whatever 
you may do, I shall alw^ays love jmu and be true to you. And 
this is not Good-bye; I won’t consent to say that hateful 
woi’d till we die, and even then I won’t believe it is parting 
for ever. Heaven would be no heaven for me if you were 
not there!— not with all the harps and the psalms that they 
could anyway get together. If it’s wicked, it’s the truth— and 
I can’t help it.” 

It was some time before Dorothy calmed down sufficiently 
to yield to Plarry’s suggestion that the hour was late, and 
that it would be well for her to return home before it became 
too dark. 

The lateness of the hour made Viola give a little start of 
alarm. She too ought to have been home before now. If 
Philip had returned, the danger of discovery would be in- 
(jreased by the delay. Viola laid her hand in Harrj^’s in fare- 
well. He bent down and kissed her, disregarding the pres- 
ence of Dorothy. 

“It is all settled, then,” he said, under his breath. “You 
will make no mistake. Wednesday 24th, at eight o’clock, at 
the door of the West Wing, unless we send a message through 
Caleb to announce any alterations of plan. If you should 
wish to communicate with me, do so also through ‘Caleb. Be 
brave; almost everything depends upon you. My whole life 
is now in your hands, as well as your own future.” 

He looked white and haggard as he bade her a lingering 
farewell, and watched the t’»vo figures hurrying side bj^ side 
across the uplands. He saw them part at about a hundred 
yards from the Castle. Dorothy trending off to the right 
towards the village, Viola leftwards to her iiomc. She looked 


THE WlllliLPOOL OF FATE. 


275 


back just before entering the house ; and Harry knew that her 
eyes were straining through the dusk to where he stood ; then 
she turned and passed across the threshold out of sight. 
******** 

Viola found tea awaiting her in the ante-room as usual. 
Maria welcomed her with much purring and arching of the 
back. 

On her way downstairs, after removing her wet cloak, she 
saw the library door open, and concluded that Philip had not 
returned. So far, so good. But when he did return he would 
question her. What answer could she give? She had once 
made a declaration of war to Philip, and warned him not to 
trust her. Why might she not say boldly: ‘‘Yes, I have met 
Harry Lancaster.” Then came a qualm of fear. Philip had 
told her that if he found it necessary he would not shrink 
from placing her under lock and key. He would swear she 
was mad; he would place her in charge of a keeper; he would 
do anything, in short, which her conduct made necessary: so 
he had plainly told her. Dangerous work indeed to openly 
defy Philip Dendraith, and not less difficult to defy him in 
secret. 

Half an hour later the front door opened and closed ; Philip 
entered, and Maria left the room. Viola felt a thrill go through 
her from head to foot. 

Philip seemed preoccupied. He sat down beside the table, 
and poured himself out cup after cup of tea. It had been stand- 
ing so long that it was black and bitter, but he did not seem 
to notice it, connoisseur though he was. He roused hims,elf 
presently, and asked what Viola had been doing all the after- 
noon. 

“I have been out,” she said. 

“ Calling?” he enquired. 

“ No; it was settled that I was not to call to-day.” 

“Oh! was it?” 

“ You have been longer than you expected, have you not?” 
said Viola, with a glance at his preoccupied face, over which 
now and then a pleased smile flitted. 

“ Perhaps I have— what’s the time ? Dear me, six o’clock. 
I had no idea it was so late.” 

He poured out another cup of tea and drank it off. Then 
he rose. “ I shall be in the library till dinner-time,” he said. 

Viola could scarcely believe that the dangerous interview 
had passed off so easily. 

At dinner, to her relief, the perilous subject was not re- 
sumed. Husband and wife spent together another of the 
long gloomy evenings which Viola had always dreaded, day 
after day as it came. How many more of them were to 
come ? Exactly flfteen if— Ah, that terrible “ if ” ! She paled 
at the thought of all that it implied. 

Facing one another at their solemn dinner-table, waited on 
by the ever-faithful Cupid, exchanging now and then a few 


276 


THE Wim OF AZRAEL. 


indifferent remarks, they pursued their own thoughts and 
lived their divided lives, while the eyes of fading portraits 
watched them, always witli their look of cold and cynical 
amusement. 

After the meal, Viola passed across the echoing hall to the 
vast drawing-room, Maria, as usual, gliding in after her. 

The window was open and let in the salt wind from the sea. 
Viola, gazing out into the darkness, struggled to realise that 
her fate was now actually decided; that the crisis of her life 
was close at hand, that every detail of conduct and circum- 
stance might at any moment change the course of the whole 
future. 

Memories of the afternoon jostled one another in her brain. 
Her heart-beats quickened at the remembrance of the inter- 
view with all its dream-like joy and bewilderment. 

Harry could not complain now of a want of return to his 
devotion. Viola did nothing by halves. Once fully roused, 
her love was strong, passionate, and unchanging. 

A transitory affection was not in her nature. Whosoever 
had been taken once into her heart was taken into it for ever. 
The same elements of character which made her capable on 
occasion of a fury absolutely blind in its vehemence, gave 
her also the capacity for an infinite devotibn. 

Harry had reason to rejoice. Viola was shaken completely 
out of herself; the magic chord had been struck and her 
whole being was in vibration. Doubts, hesitations were 
swept away ; feebler currents daring to approach the edges of 
the tempest were caught and overpowered and utterly de- 
stroyed. 

There was something in the strength and untameableness of 
her emotions when once roused, that strangely resembled the 
ocean in its gloomier moods. 

Her intense love of the sea, whose voice was in her ears 
day and night, whose every aspect was familiar, could not 
have played so large a part in her life without leaving an in- 
delible mark upon her character. 

Her instinctive fatalism might have been the lesson of un- 
] esting tides, of the waves for ever advancing and retreating, 
blindly obedient in spite of their resistlessness and their vast 
dominion. 

Viola leant out into the darkness and stretched out her arms 
as she used to do in childhood, longingly towards the ocean. 
She was a child again in spirit, in spite of all she had passed 
through since that midnight, years ago, when she sat by 
the open window peering into the mysteries, and yearning 
to throw herself down by the water’s edge, and let the v/avcs 
come up to her and comfort her. 

Now she had just the same wild longing to fling herself 
upon the bosom of the great sea, the same childish belief in 
the healing power of that tameless giant in whom might and 
gentleness were so strangely blended. 


THE WniULPOOL OF FATE. 


2T7 


And now she was to leave this life-long friend ; the hoarse 
voices of the waves would haunt her dreams no moi:^e. Tears 
of regret came into her eyes. Even this vault-like old house 
with its cavernous echoes, its gaunt passages, its unutterable 
melancholy, had become strangely, almost unwholesomel3", at- 
tractive, as such places will to the spirit which they destroy. 

The mere fact that it had been the scene of so much torture, 
so much struggle and conflict, endowed it with a sort of sinis- 
ter fascination. Every nook and corner of the house, and oat- 
side, every cleft and cranny where the little sea-plants nestled 
out of the wind’s pathway, had burnt its image into her brain, 
etching itself therein with marvellous fldelity through the 
corroding action of pain. The simplest objects and harmonies 
became poems and pictures: the curves of the ivy tendrils 
that climbed over the palings of the garden, the movement of 
the sea-birds, the quivering of a certain slender little weed 
that grew high up among the weather-beaten stone-work in a 
sheltered crevice of its own, solitary, pathetic, a deserted deli- 
cate spirit, shivering sensitively when the giant winds came 
sweeping across the entrance of its tiny sanctuary. 

If some day the shelter should crumble or be destro^’ed, if 
some day the" fragile, exquisite little plant felt upon it the full 
blast from the west, would it strengthen in resistance, or 
would the slender stem snap and the flower be whirled away 
on the breast of the storm? 

Viola’s thoughts wandered strangely this evening. The 
afternoon’s event was vividl}"^ in her consciousness, while -a 
thousand thoughts and memories danced in will-o’-the-wisp 
fashion, hither and thither, across that constant background. 

Then suddenly, with awful and startling completeness, she 
realised her own position, its peril and its possibilities. A 
cloud of terror hung above her head : would the plan fail or 
succeed? If it failed, what then? and if it succeeded, still what 
then? Everytliing was dark and mysterious as this windy 
night! What lay hidden in the future, divided from her now 
by only fifteen dawns and sunsets, yet almost as mystically 
unknown as the realms beyond the grave? 

A strange vision -like image came drifting into her mind, 
and she clasped her hands as she gazed with a thrill of dread 
and horror. A great stir seemed to alter the face of the gr^y 
tossing waters, which appeared to be moving from west to 
east in volumes indescribably vast, as if the great sea itself 
were being sucked in by some distant whirlpool ; and it went 
sweeping on and on, with dreadful stead 3^ swiftness, till of a 
sudden it came to the edge of a bottomless abyss into which 
the torrent rushed headlong] with a wild and savage roar, 
di’agging after it the waters from aU the seas and all the 
rivers in the world. 

And as it fell down and down into the black Infinite, the 
awful roar gradually died aw^a3^ and the water fell and fell in 
perfect darkness and perfect silence— for ever I 


278 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

LAST DAYS. 

“Love not pleasure; love God. This is the Everlasting 
Yea, wherein all contradiction is sowed; wherein who so 
walks, it is well with him.” 

Through what a fretful freak of memory had these words 
been stirred up in the mind where they were resting appar- 
ently harmless and inactive ! 

TMs is the Everlasting Yea. 

It was as if a prophet stood in the pathway, warning hack. 
No matter, she would go on; Harry was there beckoning, 
there was a desperate delight in risking all for him. If she 
was to be punished for choosing in defiance of law, the su- 
preme earthly happiness, well, she must look her fate in the 
face and accept the inevitable. 

A woman stands always between the devil and the deep sea. 
She must make her choice. 

“1 myself am Heav’u and Hell. 

Ileav’n but the vision of fulfilled Desire and Hell the shadow 
Of a soul on fire. ” 

Viola’s belief in hell was far more absolute than that of 
many who fancy that they hold the doctrine in all firmness 
of orthodoxy. She who had known the atrocious torment of a 
soul bound close and fast to the Intolerable, had no difficulty 
in believing in eternal punishment. Had she not herself 
known the pains of hell in that long torture whose memory 
clung round her, burning and blazing, only to be quenched 
with the consciousness of personal identity? 

The dreadful sixteen days were slowly creeping on, but, oh I 
how slowly. It rained incessantly; steady drifting rain, 
sweeping over the grey sea, and beating a perpetual sum- 
mons on the westward window-panes. The only break to the 
feverish monotony was a visit from Dorothy, who came to 
assure Viola once more of her unalterable devotion. 

“ I warn you again not to believe in me,” said Viola; “ even 
your faithfulness will falter at what I am capable of.” 

Dorothy shook her head. 

‘ ‘ I hope you will do nothing dreadful ; but if you did, it 
would make no difference. Not even if you murdered a few 
people,” she added, laughing, “I shouid know that they de- 
served it.” 

Once Adrienne and Bob Hunter called, when those deliber- 
ate sixteen days had marched past to about half their number; 


LAST DA YS. 


279 


eight behind and eight yet to come. Adrienne was absorbed 
in the wedding preparations, or seemed to be so; Bob evi- 
dently proud and happy,, and more than ever liable to athletic 
sports, though he now sometimes stopped abruptly and apolo- 
^sed. Adrienne had apparently been cruel enough to dis- 
courage his pirouettes. 

“Arid you won’t be late on Friday, will you?” she said in 
parting, “and, Viola dear, I am looking forward to having 
you for a long, long visit as soon as we return home. You 
will be sure and come, won’t you?” 

“ Oh, you won’t care to have me so soon,” said Viola, paling 
a little. 

“Nonsense; that’s just what I long for. For one thing, I 
don’t want Bob to get tired of me.” 

Bob pirouetted in a manner which expressed remonstrance. 

“One of adamant, you fail to appreciate the good taste of 
him who adores you to distraction.” 

“Come away. Bob,” said Adrienne. “You are beginning 
to be tiresome again. Now, don’t stand on one toe ; you ai’e 
really too dreadfully like a premiere danseuse. ” 

Bob, unable to resist the temptation, tripped lightly across 
the drawing-room, and arrived at the fire-place on tip-toe with 
one foot in the air and a most engaging smile irradiating his 
pale, primrose countenance. For this offence he was turned 
away, amid some laughter by his betrothed. 

A couple of days later Bob and Adrienne were standing to- 
gether before the altar of Upton Church. The bride was calm 
and quiet, and rather pale; Bob cheery and affable. Viola 
looked paler than the bride, and her pallor was the more re- 
markable from the fact that her next neighbour happened to 
be Dorothy, with her rosy face beaming — like a harvest 
moon, as her brothers said. 

Mrs. Dixie, magnificent and gracious, her ancestor still at 
her throat, presented another extraordinary contrast to Viola, 
whose white face, framed by the carving of the old oak stalls, 
had a look of sad aloofness almost unearthly. Harry, whose 
eyes were lifted to hers for a moment, read, with a pang of 
bitter pain, the story that was written in the face. It was a 
momentary glimpse into the depths of a soul— a glimpse such 
as is vouchsafed "to us, fortunately perhaps, only at rare in- 
tervals. 

He felt that he had never really understood her grief, her 
conflict, and all the darkness and lonely horror of her life, 
until this moment. The attitude and expression told the 
whole history in a flash. He felt a fierce desire to do some 
bodily injury to Viola’s father, who stood a serene and com- 
fortable wedding-guest, between Mrs. Pellett and Mrs. Russel 
Courtenay, occasionally whispering pleasant nothings into 
the ear of Mrs. Courtenay. 

Philip, handsome and exquisite, excited in Harry an even 
greater yearning to inflict a summary punishment. Philip 


280 


THE WINO OF AZRAEL. 


looked deliberately round on one occasion, as if he felt the 
vengeful impulse directed against him ; he gave a cool stare, 
and a just at the end, singular little' gleam of a smile, which 
made his adversary feel uncomfortable. 

‘‘’Till death do us part.” 

Philip looked across at his wife. She felt the look, but 
would not meet it. She knew that it was a taunt, a reminder 
that she was his till death ; that no plots or efforts she could 
make were sufficient to release her. She knew his delight in 
making her feel the power and the fruitlessness of resistance. 
The instinct to torture was strong in the man. He belonged 
to a type that was only brought to perfection at the time of 
the Italian Eenaissance. Possibly it was part of his policy to 
frighten Viola into a belief in his ability to frustrate any 
design she might form. He knew how paralysing to effort is 
such a belief, and how far more easily his wife would betray 
her secrets if she were overwhelmed with a baffling convic- 
tion that it was useless to try to conceal them. 

After the service Mr. Evans mercilessly gave the bride and 
bridegroom a homily at the altar, in which he enlarged on the 
wife’s mission, the duty of subordination to her husband, and 
devotion to the sacred cares of home. 

He spoke of the duty of the husband to cherish and love his 
wife, to guide, direct, and strengthen her, supplying the qual- 
ities which she lacked, and making of married life a duet of 
perfect harmony. Then came the signing of names, the usual 
congratulations, and the return to the Cottage before the de- 
parture of the wedded pair. The little drawing-room was 
crowded with guests, Mrs. Dixie doing the honours with inde- 
scribable pride and delight. Viola looked round at the famil- 
iar faces, feeling that she stood among the actors of her little 
world for the last time. In the future they would know her 
no more. Their part in her destiny was over forever. 

Before another week had ended she would be on the other 
side of an impassable gulf, deep and dark as life itself. 

She sat leaning back, watching the crowd with a strange 
interest. It was incredible that what had been planned should 
come to pass ! These wedding-guests reduced the whole scheme 
to dreamland ; they banished into the vast realms of Impos- 
sibility all things which wandered out of the line of their 
daily pathways. One could scarcely look at them and con- 
tinue to believe. Arabella was there, stylish and writhing; 
Mr. Pellett— dragged to the festivity against his will— still 
looked in the glare of publicity as unhappy as an owl at mid- 
day. Mrs. Evans was present, and supremely uncomfortable 
in that strange assortment of garments wherewith she did 
heroic honour to the weddings and garden-parties of the Upton 
world; her husband indulged in clerical jocularities with 
some of the livelier members of the party ; while Dick and 
Geoffrey (who was just home on leave) talked about trout- 
fishing in a corner. 


LAST DAYS. 


281 


The last time, the last time ! 

Dick came up for a talk (the last talk), friendly and frank 
as usual. 

Dorothy was watching Viola with great anxiety. Harry, 
from motives of prudence, had held aloof, but Dorothy was 
evidently afraid that he would sooner or later speak to her, 
and that somebody would guess their dreadful secret. 

There was no doubt that Arabella still had her suspicions. 
She was talking a great deal to Harry, and very often about 
Viola. But Harry might have been discussing the attractions 
of the Queen of the Cannibal Islands, for all that Arabella 
could gather from his replies. 

She presently transferred her notice to Philip. 

“I always think a wedding is so depressing, don’t you, Mr. 
Dendraith ? I am sure your sweet wife agrees with me.” 

“ My wife, I am convinced, agrees with you in everything.” 

“Oh now. Mr. Dendraith, you are too bad; I am sure she 
regards me as very frivolous, but about weddings I do think 
she would support my view.” 

“ I am sorry to see you so cynical,” said Philip. 

“Oh, I am no^ so much cynical as observant,” Arabella re- 
torted; “when I look round among my friends and acquaint 
ances, I cannot find more than one or two happy marriages 
in the whole circle. I believe it is because men will smoke 
so much.” 

“The whole secret,” said Philip. “ My wife won’t let me 
smoke more than two cigars a day.” 

“Really, how wise of her, and how nice of you to be so 
obedient 1 Men are generally so very wilful, you know. I 
shall really have to consult Mrs. Dendraith about her system 
of management. You seem to be in perfect order, and yet 
not crushed.” 

“ Not at all crushed,” said Philip ; “ my wife says she doesn’t 
like to see a man’s spirit broken.” 

Arabella laughed. (“ He rules her with a rod of iron,” she 
said to herself, “ and she lives in deadly fear of him.”) “Oh, 
Mr. Dendraith, I want you and Mrs. Dendraith to come over 
to tea with me next Tuesday. There are one or two people 
coming whom I should like you to meet.” 

“ Thank you.” Philip answered, “ I should have enjoyed it 
immensely; but on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I 
shall be in town. I have had important engagements for 
some time.” 

“ Now I am certain they are of mushroom growth,” cried 
Arabella; “ it is very unkind. You and Mrs. Dendraith never 
will come and see me. ” 

“I assure you the engagement is a genuine one; how can 
ymu be so suspicious ? Cynical again ! Viola, my dear, Mrs. 
Courtenay declares that I am manufacturing engagements; 
can’t you testify to the antiquity of my appointments for 
Tuesday and Wednesday of next Veek ?” 


282 


THE WING OF AZHAEL. 


Viola confirmed her husband’s statement. 

“Well, I suppose I must forgive you if that’s the case, but 
it’s very tiresome of you. I am glad to find you tell your 
wife of all your engagements; without, as you say, breaking 
your spirit, I can see that she is very firm with you.” 

“She is,” said Philip, “ but I know it is for my good.” 

The bride now began to bid farewell to her friends, before 
departing in her lady-like grey dress, which every one said 
was so becoming. She behaved with great self-possession, 
though one could see that she was moved. Mrs. Dixie folded 
her in a vast embrace, from which Adrienne emerged rather 
less exquisitely smooth than before, leaving her mother weep- 
ing with great assiduity and much lace pocket-handkerchief. 
They were genuine tears that she shed, although this was one 
of the happiest days of her life. 

When the bride came to Viola she gave her a long, heart- 
felt kiss. ‘ ‘ Be brave and true to yourself, dear, ” she whispered. 

“ Good-bye, good-bye,” Viola returned. 

“We shall soon meet again,” said Adrienne, with a cheer- 
ful nod, passing on to Dorothy. 

“ Good-bye,” repeated Viola. 

In how short a time was Adrienne to look back at that 
parting with a shudder of disgust; in how short a time was 
the memory that once she had called Viola Dendraith friend 
to be thrust aside, whenever it intruded, with horror and dis- 
may. A life of smooth prosperity and domestic contentment 
was the reward of Adrienne's action at this crisis of her 
career; and every day of her well-appointed existence sent 
her drifting further in spirit from the tortured, desperate, 
bewildered creature whose straying footsteps she had so 
earnestly sought to guide in straigh ter pathways, whose faults 
she had so conscientiously striven to correct. Adrienne had 
the consoling thought that she had at any rate done her best 
to save her erring friend from the abyss of guilt and ruin to- 
wards which she had been drifting. 

The bride and bridegroom once departed, the guests began 
to leave. Dorothy canio up to Viola and folded her in a 
Herculean embrace. “You are worth all the rest of them 
put together,” she exclaimed. “ I have been watching them, 
and their airs and graces, beside you.” Dorothy gave a ges- 
ture of contempt. “ They look so silly,’ she said with severe 
energy; “ they mince and wriggle, and snip and sniggle, and 
go on like marionettes, who have got wires where their souls 
ought to be ! And you — you seem like a beautiful, calm statue 
among all these fidgetting dolls.” 

“O Dorothy 1 you a?’e extravagant,” Viola exclaimed with 
a sad little smile. 

“ No, I am only telling the exact truth,” said Dorothy. 

“Are you coming, dear?” her mother called to her; “we 
are going.” 

Mrs, Evans shook hands with Viola, and said she hoped she 


LAST DAYS. 


283 

would come and sec them soon at the Rectory; it was so long 
since she had been theie. Then she passed on to collect the 
rest of her daughters. 

“Good-bye,” said Dorothy with another fervent embrace. 
“ You won’t do anything dreadful, will you?” she whispered 
pleadingly. “ Please, please don’t; but if you do, it will make 
no difference. I shall love you alwa3"s.” 

“Ah! good-bye, and go,” cried Viola with a break in her 
voice, kissing the girl and thrusting her hastily awav". as she 
felt her self-command beginning to fail. 

Dorothy gave a parting look and smile, and followed her 
mother from the room. And in a few days even that loving and 
faithful heart had turned against the miserable woman who 
watched her depart, knowing that they had met for the last 
time. The day was at hand when Dorothy would tear the 
memory of her idol from her heart with horror and anguish— 
when she would catch her breath at the mention of Viola’s 
name, turning aside in miserable silence as it was tossed about 
from mouth to mouth with insult and execration. 

Suddenly', as Viola remained with her eyes fixed on the spot 
where she had seen Dorothy" pass from the room, that strange 
image (d' hastening waters appeared again before her mind’s 
eye almost as vividl^^ as when she had stood at the window 
looking out to sea. Again there was t'ne mj^sterious stir; 
again the whole ocean seemed to be drawn away and away, 
from west to east, towards a bottomless gulf, which v/as 
drinking up all the seas and rivers, sucking in, attracting, 
constraining, forever insatiable and forever empty. With 
awful tumult and distraction the waters rushed to their doom, 
boiling, seething, rebelling in vain against the power that 
drew them, with ever-accelerating speed, onwards to the 
inevitable verge. And then once more, with a bound like 
that of some wild creature hunted to his death, they leapt over 
the brink, pouring down, and down, and down, in one smooth 
mighty stream, into the infinite darkness and infinite silence 
forever. 

Viola awoke with a sudden bewildered start to find Geoffrey 
standing before her laughing. 

“ What’s the matter, Ila?” he asked. “ Are you walking in 
your sleep? I have asked you a question three times, and 
you only stared at me. with no speculation in your eye. 
Suppose a wedding is a thought-provoking sort of affair to the 
married !” 

“You will' come and see me, Geoffrey,” said Viola, when 
after some further conversation he said he must be going. 

“Oh yes. I'll come of course,” said Geoffrey, “in a day or 
two. The uncle has offered me one or two days’ fishing at 
Clevedon, so I shan’t be able to come tiU Tuesday or Wednes- 
day. When I do come I should like to stay the night.” 

“ bo come on Tuesday, then. I want very much to see 
you.” 


284 


THE WING OF AZUAEL. 


“Why, my dear, of course I shall come as soon as I can. 
I thought I might perhaps have an invitation to spend part of 
my leave with you. I don’t wish to push myself— always was 
retiring. I’ve got a lot of things I want to talk to you about, ” 
he went on, more seriously. “I have been reading Carlyle, 
and by Jove — Well, we’ll talk it over later on. Good-bye 
just now. The Governor’s going. I shall probably come to 
you Wednesday. Tuesday’s rather busy.” 

“Oh, do come on Tuesday,” said Viola, glancing swiftly 
round, to make sure that Philip was out of ear-shot. 

“Why do you want me so particularly to come on Tues- 
day?” asked Geoffrey. 

“ I would still rather you came to-morrow or on Monday.” 

“ Well, if you are so set upon it, I will try and tuni up on 
one day or other. Mustn’t come on Wednesday in any con- 
sideration evidently. Something up on Wednesday ; well, I 
hope it will go off well, and be a grand success. My blessing 
on you; good-bye.” 

Viola wished that Geoffrey’s voice were not so exceedingly 
sonorous and hearty. Yet surely Philip could not have 
heard what he said from the other end of the room, through 
the hubbub of talk and laughter. The incident nevertheless 
made her feel uneasy. 

“ Now, Viola,” said her aunt, coming up and touching her 
on the shoulder, “why have you never said a word to me all 
day? Well, how are you, and what have you been doing, and 
what are you going to do? You look pale, my dear. You 
shut youreelf up in that old house and get dull. Now you 
must really come and see me. I have a friend I want you to 
know — Arabella’s sister, Mabel Turner, but not so foolish as 
Arabella; one family can’t be expected to produce tw*o 
masterpieces. She is coming on Wednesday evening, and 
you must drive over to dinner and stay the night.” 

“I fear. Aunt Augusta, I can’t do that,” cried Viola. 

( t j « 

“Now, my dear, I take no refusal,” said Lady Clevedon; 
“you are getting into stay-at-home ways that are exceed- 
ingly bad for you. I simply insist upon your coming to me 
on Wednesday; so say no more about it.” 

“ But, Aunt Augusta, it is impossible.” 

“ Oh, stuff and nonsense ! you have nothing in the world to 
do. Why can’t you come?” 

Viola shook her head and tried to turn the subject. 

“Now, no more nonsense; you have got to do as you are 
told. Women are nothing if not obedient. I shall expect 
you on Wednesday not later than five o’clock. Now, good- 
bye, dear.” 

‘ ‘ Good-bye, Aunt Augusta, ” Vida said with a slight uninten- 
tional stress on the word. Every parting to-day had for her 
the sad solemnity of a last fare well ~ 


LAST DA YS, 285 

Lady Clevedon laughed. “One would fancy Viola was go- 
ing to mount the scaffold to-morrow,” she said. 

Before leaving. Lady Clevedon spoke to Philip about his 
wife’s growing dislike to mingling with her fellow-creatures. 

‘ It IS really very bad for her, and you ought to check it. 
I wanted her to come to tea with me next week, but she says 
it is impossible, which — like a problem in Euclid — is absurd. 
What can be her reason?” 

“She may have Dorothy Evans with her, perhaps, next 
week, as I am to be away, ” said Philip. 

“As if she couldn’t bring the girl. Tell Viola that I shall 
expect them both.” 

Philip delivered the message w'hen he and his wife were 
driving home across the downs. 

“ I suppose you will go?” he said indifferently. 

“ I decided not to do so,” Viola replied. 

“Do you intend never to go anywhere again? Why wdll 
you not go to your aunt’s?” 

“ Why, after all, should I go? I am not meant for society.” 

“ I wonder what you are meant for.” 

“A target for other people’s wit and other people’s cru- 
elty,” said Viola. 

‘ ‘ A target that answers back is a novelty, ” said Phihp. ‘ ‘ A 
target has the Christian’s virtue : it turneth the other cheek 
also.” 

They drove for the rest of the way home in almost complete 
silence. The evening closed in with recurring rain, which 
beat upon the windows of the house with mournful persistence 
for many stormy hours. 

Viola sat by the big fireplace, a book, for appearance’ sake, 
in her lap, looking into the fire and thinking, thinking. And 
outside the grey sea beat for ever upon the beach. There was 
no escaping from its voice. It was like a full-toned chorus 
to the drama of life, mournful and prophetic. 

Viola’s thoughts wandered to her friend. 

Poor Adrienne 1 what were the waves foretelling for her? 
Would she settle quietly down to her lot and forget how all 
her new ease and rest from anxiety had been purchased? 
Would the knowledge that she had done it console her? 
“ Every woman has her price,” Phihp had said. Adrienne’s 
price had been found and paid. 

On Sunday morning Goeffrey appeared. “ You see I have 
come to-day, ” he said, “since you are having high jinks on 
Wednesday to which only the very select are invited.. Philip 
says you aren’t going to church ; so let us have a talk. ” Bring- 
ing out a tattered volume of Carlyle, he opened it on his knee, 
drawing up his chair before the fire. He wanted to know 
what Viola thought of a celebrated passage in “ Sartor Resar- 
tus ” which he read aloud: “ Foolish soul, what act of legisla- 
ture was there that thou shouldst be happy ? A little while- 
ago thou hadst no right to be at all. What if thou wert born 


286 


THE WING OF AZllAEL. 


and predestined not to Le happy, but to be unhappy : art thou 
nothing other than a vulture then, that flsest througli the 
Universe seeking after somewhat to eat, and shrieking dole- 
fully because carrion enough is not given thee? There is in 
Man a higher than love of Happiness; he can do without 
Happiness, and instead thereby find Blessedness.” 

“ Is that all true, do you think?” the young man asked wist- 
fully. “This,” said Viola, “is really our mother’s teaching 
in other words: that we ought to submit to what is sent us to 
bear, and to aim at something higher than happiness.” 

“ What is blessedness, do you suppose?” Goeffrey enquired. 
“Can’t remember that I ever came across it. Don’t know 
what to make of the whole passage. Ought we to try to be 
blessed and never mind about being happy all our lives? And, 
Viola, how do you suppose one can set about being blessed? 
I don’t kno\V^, for the life of me, and yet it seems as if that 
doctrine led one on to a high mountain and gave one a gi’and- 
er view of things. I don’t know how to express it, of course, 
but you know what I mean.” 

Viola looked very thoughtful as she sat gazing into the 
fire. 

Was it Fate that had sent her this second message from 
the great apostle of endurance and heroism? 

“ Love not pleasure, love God.” 

That was the first message. And now came this second 
one: “ Why shouldst thou be happy?” 

Were Harry and Sibella mistaken after all? Was it nobler 
to cast happiness to the winds — accepting the fact that there 
is indeed no reason why one should be happy— than to rebel 
against circumstances divinely ordered, against the teaching 
of one’s childhood, against the laws of society and of the 
mighty past? 

Viola was always open to teaching of this character; long 
years had worn a groove in her mind where such thoughts 
flowed smoothly and familiarly. She was haunted and 
troubled long after Geoffrey had gone. The ideas on which 
she had resolved to act were not originally her own ; she had 
not evolved them for herself, built them up from observation 
and thought, from the thoughts of others that Avere ready to 
mix with and fructify her own. The ideas were in her mind 
still as things separate and distinct; they had no long-tried 
supports to uphold them ; they were isolated and unnourished. 
Such are not the strong buttressed ideas to inspire bold and 
consistent action. They may dissipate at any moment, and 
leave the actor without light or motive, the slave of every 
impulse, of every turn of events. 

The turn of events which helped to decide Viola’s fate to-day 
was the behaviour of her husband. Every day the rack was 
being screwed tighter till human endurance could withstand no 
more. Viola, whose power of projecting herself into another 
mind was limited strictly to cases where the mind somewhat 


DARKNESS. 


287 


resembled her own, had never realised how intensely annoy 
ing to Philip her conduct had been ; she failed to understand 
that any conduct on lier part could seriously affect one so 
cold and strong and self-sufficient as her husband. His con- 
temptuous manner, his apparent determination to humiliate 
her by every device, caused her to imagine that she was power- 
less to make him wince in return. It is possible that had she 
known how he was smarting under the repeated evidences of 
her aversion, the history of her life might have had a different 
ending. But she did not know, and the drama played itself 
out inexorably. 

Philip’s studied insolence and insults after G-eoffrey left, in- 
deed before he left, put to flight all effects of reading “Sartor 
Resartus.” There might be something higher than happiness, 
but it was not to be attained under the same roof with Philip 
Dendraith, it was not to be obtained by a woman who for the 
sake of food and house-room and social consideration remained 
his wife ; unhappiness one could endure, but degradation and 
indignity never. 

Women in the past had thought it no crime to take their 
own lives rather than submit to that. Perhaps they were 
wrong, but Viola’s heart leapt up in sympathy towards them. 
They were her true sisters, in spite of all the years that raised 
a host of shadows between them. She understood their 
desperation ; she knew how their hearts had burnt and blazed 
within them, how death to them had seemed the sweetest 
thing in all the World. 

“Why shouldst thou be happy?” Perhaps there was no 
good reason. But “why shouldst thou live to be tortured 
and insulted?” Was there any better reason for that? 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

DARKNESS. 

During these last slowly-moving days Maria followed her 
mistress everywhere. She would scarcely allow her out of 
her sight. Perhaps Viola’s restlessness may have warned 
this terribly intelligent animal that something unusual was in 
the air. 

The creature seemed to be striving in her own eloquent 
fashion to comfort her mistress, and to assure her that, under 
ail vicissitudes of fortune, she might confidently count upon 
the support of her dumb and faithful friend. 

“Ah! what shall I do without you, my dear?” Viola used to 
ask sorrowfully. “ If I could but take you with me—!” 


288 


THE WINO OF AZllAEL. 


Still the wild weather continued, rain and wind beating up 
from the south-west. There were rumours of wrecks along 
the coast, and at Shepherd’s Nook the life-boat had gone out 
to save the crew of a sinking vessel. 

If on Wednesday it were still so stormy, how would they be 
able to effect their escape by sea? Well, no doubt Harry had 
thought of that, and would have some other plan. It was 
useless for Viola to trouble about details. 

Monday was still stormy, though there were gleams of 
tearful sunshine lighting up in patches an agitated sea. 

“ If this rain lasts,” said Philip, “ I think I shall give up my 
visit to London.” 

Viola’s face was half turned from him, but he saw the colour 
rush into her cheeks. 

“ I can postpone it till next week if necessary. It will de- 
pend on the weather.” 

Bright sunshine on Tuesday morning decided the question. 
Viola stood on the doorstep, watching the phaeton which took 
Philip to the station growing smaller and smaller, till at last 
it disappeared in the distance of the sunlit downs. If all went 
according to their plan, she had seen her husband for the last 
time ! There was not one memory in the whole of her married 
life to make her think of that with compunction or regret! 
Slie stood there in the sunshine, with the wind playing round 
her, long after Philip was out of sight. When she did move, 
it was not to retura to the house, but to v/ander out into the 
sunlit garden by the beautiful terraces where the tendills of 
the creepers were nodding and swaying, and the rain-sprinkled 
cobwebs fringed the pathway witli brilliants. Maria was 
following, daintily picking her steps along the wet paths, 
nimbly springing on and off the parapets as her mistress 
strolled slowly, thoughtfully among the flowers. Only for 
short intervals during the whole of this day did Viola remain 
within doors. In the morning she drove to the Manor-House, 
to pay the old place and its inhabitants a farewell visit. It 
was looking its serenest and sweetest. Terrible was the ache 
at her heart, as she strolled once more round the familiar 
gardens, passed once more through the old rooms where every 
nook and corner had vivid associations, where evervthing 
spoke of the dead woman who had borne so nuicii and 
sacrificed so much, and all in vain. What would the mother 
think of her daughter now if she knew? Well, if she knew in 
good earnest, — not as a limited creature knows, who has only 
one or two little strings in his nature that vibrate responsively 
but as a liberated spirit might he supposed to know^ whc 
overlooks the whole field of human emotion,— then Viola 
thought that her mother would not blame her. 

No nook or corner was left un visited. Viola bid farewell 
to all her old friends— Thomas and the under-gardener, and 
— most heart-breaking of all--to old William, whose eyes 


DARKNESS. 


289 


filled with tears at her words, and perhaps still more at the 
tone in which they were uttered, 

“ It always does me good to see you, Miss — Mum, as I should 
say! There, I don’t believe as there’s many like you, more’s 
the pity : the old place ain’t been itself since you left, and 
iif^ver will be. God bless you 1” 

Viola turned away. In a few short days would he recall 
his blessing? Would he be against her also? Would he take 
the usual simple course, and condemn because he could not 
understand? Perhaps not. There was something large and 
generous in the tender old heart: though he might grieve and 
marvel and shake his head, yet perhaps he would not judge ; 
he would simply leave the matter alone, and go his own quiet 
way, reviling not, but trusting. 

Another trying farewell \^ as with Geoffrey, though, like so 
many pitiful things, it had its comic side. The young fellow 
was in one of his wildest moods— jovial, hearty, full of life, 
hope, and spirit. His ‘‘good-bye” was naturally of the most 
casual and common-place description. He said he was com- 
ing over to see his sister on Thursday, — not to-morrow, oh ! 
no; he remembered the mysterious “ high jinks” apperWn- 
ing to Wednesday, and tactfully forbore to intrude. But on 
Thursday when the excitement of the “ high jinks ” had died 
away, he should claim a little sisterly attention while he a 
tale unfolded. Geoffrey handed her into the phaeton with a 
fraternal nod of farewell, but Viola put her arms round his 
neck and kissed him. 

“Geoffrey dear,” she said, “we have always been good 
friends, haven’t we?” 

“Why, yes, of course we have,” Geoffrey returned in 
astonishment ; ‘ ‘ who said we haven’t ? Because if you’ll show 
me the fellow I’ll knock him down.” 

“Oh! I don’t want you to knock any one down,” said 
Viola with a sad little laugh. “I want you always to remem- 
ber what good friends we have been, and how fond I was of 
you, and always shall be. And— and think as kindly of me 
as you can. Good-bye.” She kissed him again, and then be- 
fore Geoffrey recovered from his astonishment the phaeton 
was half-way down the avenue. 

Towards evening the weather showed ominous signs of a 
change for the worse. Black clouds were gathering over the 
sea, and the wind had a sound which the coast-guard people 
knew so well betokened storm. 

All promises were fulfilled. 

This last sleepless ni^ht in the glooming home ’was wildly 
tempestuous. Viola, with every nerve on the stretch, shiver- 
ing from head to foot, lay counting the hours as they were 
deliberately tolled out by the great courtyard clock. She 
paced up and down her room when it became impossible any 
longer to remain still, listening to the familiar sounds of the 
storm. 


290 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


The night wore itself out, but the rain and wind had only 
slightly abated by the morning. 

Perhaps it was Viola’s excited fancy that made her think 
that Mrs. Barber was more watchful than usual to-day. 

There was no evading her — or so it seemed. The talent 
which the respectable person displayed in finding excuses for 
her presence was as astounding as her admirable acting — if 
acting it were. 

Viola was anxiously on the alert all the morning in case 
any message should co;ne from Harry. Regardless of Mrs. 
Barber, she braved rain and wind, and went to the ruin, so 
that in case Caleb had any note for her he might deliver it 
without difficulty. But ‘Caleb was purely and freezingly 
philosophic this morning. He was absorbed in the Absolute, 
and had nothing to say on any other subject, unless it were a 
word or two on the Infinite. 

A stranger go-between in a secret correspondence can 
scarcely be imagined. He appeared to have no curiosity on 
the subject whatever. For all that one could tell, the philoso- 
pher may have thought that he was carrying letters on the 
subject of the differential calculus. The day wore on, but no 
message came ; the plan was evidently to be carried out as 
arranged. 

The hours were like so many grievous burdens, heavy to 
endure; but they stole gradually away, the clocks announcing, 
with what seemed unusual emphasis, the passing of them one 
by one into Eternity. Viola had decided to make hei*self 
ready to start, having hat and cloak downstairs, so that in a 
second she could fling them on and go. It would be well not to 
leave a moment too soon, because of Mi's. Barber. The moon 
was rising, but there was fear that the clouds might obscure 
its light at the critical moment. One thing must be done be- 
fore leaving : and that was, to take her treasures from the oak 
cabinet in the west wing— Harry’s gift and his letters. She 
had not dared to take these things before, for fear of Philip’s 
discovering and confiscating them. Once possessed of these, 
she would hasten downstairs to the door of the west wing 
leading onto the terrace, where Harry would be awaiting her. 

Again and again, Viola found herself over.whelmed with 
unbelief in the reality of the ev( nts which were passing, 
panorama-like, before her. It could not be true ; it must be a 
jiigantic and terrible dream. Presently she would awake and 
find herself going through the daily routine exactly as before, 
without hope of release. The hours were drifting on, the 
throbbing moments passing— passing, till the appointed time 
began to draw near. Maria was on the hearth-rug, purring 
softly. Viola stooped down and lifted the creature in her 
arms. 

“ Good-bye, you dear and faithful one; good-bye,” she said, 
burying her face in the soft fur and laying her cheek agamst 
it caressingly. As she stood thus with the animal lying in her 


DAliKNESS. 


291 


arms, the door opened behind her very softly, and then closed 
again as softly. No one entered, and Viola remained unaware 
or what had occurred. She glanced at the clock. 

“I must go,” she said, giving the cat a last caress and lay- 
ing her down again before the fire. Putting on her hat and 
cloak, she opened the door carefully, looked up and down 
the passage, and then hurried along past the cynical portraits 
in the hall to the door leading to the west wing. Once on the 
other side of that, she breathed more freely. She hesitated 
for a moment, and then taking the key from the hall side of 
the door, she locked it on the western side and put the key in 
her po(*ket. At least she would be secure from Mrs. Barber’s 
espionage. She had exactly five minutes to get her treasures 
and be at the terrace-door to meet Harry as appointed. 

A gust of air greeted her as she entered the room. The 
storm apparently had blown in one of the lozenged Avindow- 
panes. Viola felt a superstitious thrill of fear, as if the 
gtist had been a warning to her not to cross the threshold. 
But at the same moment she knew that no Avarning could 
retard her noAv — not even that too familiar moan in the sound 
of the sea prophesying Avoe. She advanced toAvards the 
cabinet, opened it, and took out the packet of letters and 
Harry’s Avedding gift with trembling fingers. The light of 
the rising moon was sufficient to enable her to see what she 
Avas doing. She consulted her watch ; longing feverishly for 
the end of this lonely suspense, longing to get once for all 
beyond the spell-like influence of this house, where she seemed 
to feel Philip’s presence in the very air. 

She put the letters in her pocket, and took the knife from 
its hiding place. Hoav to carry it ? She thought for a 
moment, and then thrust it into the coils of her hair, so that 
the weapon Avas almost concealed. She was hurrying towards 
the door when she became aware of a tall form emerging out 
of the darkness, and then without apparent interval her 
wrist Avas gripped by a human hand, powerful and merciless. 
She uttered a stifled shriek, and then a low moan of despair. 

“ Very Aveli planned for a beginner, my dear; shoAv^s a real 
bent in that^direction, Avhich if followed might lead to supe- 
rior results. One Avould never suspect you of such things: 
therein lies your advantage.” 

Philip still held her wrist betAveen his fingers, which Avere 
closed upon it as a vice. The two stood confronting one 
another thus -Viola wdiite as death, with the hard-set look of 
a desperate and a determined woman; Philip Avith a smile 
on his face, prepared to enjoy himself. 

“Pardon my detaining you,” he said, “ especially as you 
are keeping IMr. Lancaster Avaiting out in the cold ; on a stormy 
night like this it seems especially inconsiderate. But you can 
lay the blame on me; say it Avas entirely my fault, and that I 
humbly apologise for any inconvenience I may have caused 
him.” 


202 


THE WING OF AZllAEL. 


Viola made an effort to free her wrist, but the hard fingers 
closed round it more tightly. 

“ Not just yet, if you please; I have so much to talk about. 
This littie plan of yours — I must really repeat my congi’atu- 
lations — I have watched it through all its incipient stages with 
unbounded interest. A plan like that is born, not made.” 

He released her hand, but placed himself with his back to 
the door, so that she still remained his prisoner. 

Viola’s eyes were wild and desperate. 

“What are you going to do ?” she asked; “what punish- 
ment have you in store for me ?” 

“Punishment! How can you talk of punishment ?— one 
who adores you ” 

The smile" of mockery, triumph, and conscious possession 
made the blood mount to her very temples. 



means of escape. The 


She looked round 


window ? 

“Fifty feet from the ground, my love; and although, no 
doubt, adoring arms would be ready to receive you when you 
reached terra firma, still I should not advise the attempt, 
even in the course of virtue.” 

“ Can’t you say what you mean to do, at once, without all 
these taunts ? Surely the fact of your victory is enough for 
you.” 

“Certainly; but your curiosity as regards the future seems 
a little morbid. During my visit to town I have secured the 
services of a most superior person who will henceforth be 
always your cheerful and instructive companion. 1 hope 
sincerely that you will agree with her, as the arrangement is 
permanent. All preliminaries are now settled, and the su- 
perior person will enter upon her duties to-morrow. You ask 
perhaps why I returned to-day instead of to-morrow, as ar- 
ranged. Simply because I had my reasons for thinking that 
something was going on. I really am not in a position to 
afford to lose you thus prematurely. You see, my dear, you 
are an article of ‘ vertu ’ which cannot be easily renewed, a 
luxury that a man can’t afford to repeat too frequently. In 
]'>oint of fact, if you will excuse my mentioning it, you come 
]-ather expensive. The original consideration was heavy, 
but that would have been nothing had it stopped there. The 
truth is, however, that your amiable father still applies to me 
for money to get him out of disgraceful difficulties, and for 
the sake of avoiding family scandal I allow myself to be thus 
bled with a sweetness of temper which I fear sometimes 
borders on weakness. The outlay appears especially ruinous 
from the fact that still I am disappointed of an heir; a matter 
to me of serious moment. All things considered, therefore, 
mj^ love, you will admit that you have been somewhat of the 
nature of a sell, and you will pardon my endeavoring to 
prevent your bringing "the matter to a climax by disgracing 
yourself and me in this spirited manner. It will not do, be- 


DARKNESS. 


298 


lieve me, and you must really oblige me by banishing the 
idea from your mind as an impossibility. I think you will 
have no difficulty in accomplishing this when you receive the 
a!)le help of my Superior Person. After her advent I shall 
be able to leave you with every confidence, and perfect peace 
of mind. This Pillar of Strength has been accustomed to the 
care of what are pleasingly termed mental cases, and she is 
therefore as keen and ^uick as a detective. Charming and 
most clever is my superior person. I long to introduce her 
to you. I know' you will love her.” 

“ Is your cruelty not satiated yet?” asked Viola at length. 

Will you not end this interview and let me go out of your 
sight ? If I am to bo a prisoner, show me my dungeon and 
leave me in peace. Only let me go. I can bear no more.” 

Philip took a cat-like step nearer to her. “ You will not 
go out of my si^ht this night, my dear,” he said, looking into 
her face with a keen enjoyment of her torture. Her shrink- 
ing movement and low cry seemed to rouse his worst in- 
stincts. 

“Ah! you may shrink, but shrinking will not help you. 
VAiiat does it matter to me ? You have got to learn, once for 
all, to whom you belong. I am not a man to be trifled with, 
believe me. What is mine is mine. You were about to 
make a vast mistake in that interesting point, which I am 
happily in time to rectify. Now is the moment for an im- 
pressive lesson, for there must really be no uncertainty in 
these matters. I am deeply grieved to’ keep your friend out 
in the rain all this time, but really, considering the circum- 
stances, I think he can hardly be surprised, A mnd husband 
parted for two days from his wife—” He smiled in a way that 
idways maddened her, as he advanced quickly, and took her 
in his arms, bending down to kiss her as she struggled vio- 
lently to free herself. “ It’s no use struggling,” he said, “for 
I am considerably stronger than you are, and I intend to 
stand no nonsense. If it pleases me to Kiss you I shaU kiss 
you. It is my right, gainsay it if you can. I am resolved 
that 3’ou shall understand. You are behaving as a fool or a 
spodt child, and must be treated as such.” 

Overcoming her frantic resistance he kissed her long find 
steadily on the lips, partly because it pleased him to do so, 
partly, it seemed, because it tortured her. Then he let her 
go She stood before him mad with fuiy, and for the mo- 
inent lit.-jrally speechless. 

“Oh, I could tear myself to pieces!” she said wdldly. 

Philip looked at her and smiled. It was a game of cat and 
mouse. 

“Avery pretty and becoming little passion, my dear, 
v/hich I must quench with kisses. You really can’t call me a 
tyrant, when that is my only form of chastisement: kisses till 
A oil are subdued.” 


294 


THE WINO OF AZRAEL. 


He laughed at her desperation as he advanced once more 
to inflict the “tender punishment,” as he called it. 

She darted away from him to the window and tried to 
tear it open, but he followed her, laying his hand upon her 
arm, 

“ Couldn’t have a suicide in the family on any account, nor 
can I permit you to summon your lover to the rescue. Really, 
your impetuosity is becoming dangerous. My Superior Per- 
son must hasten. Meanwhile I will cherish you under my 
own wing, enjoying all the lovely changes of your April 
moods. What, not subdued yet ? more kisses required ?” 

“Oh! do you want to drive me mad?” cried Viola hoarsely, 
standing at bay, with her hand on the casement, leaning 
backwards away from Philip’s arms. 

“ I am inconsiderate,” he said, “ to keep you parleying here 
at this time of the night. I will take you to your room. Oh 
no, I can’t trust you to go alone. Come with me ; I am too 
affectionately anxioii. - about you to let you out of my sight. 
And then my mood is tender, in spite of a slight coldness on 
your part which I am always in hopes that my persistent de- 
votion will be able to overcome. Allow me.” 

He put his arm round her to lead her away. 

“ Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me, I tell you, or I shall go 
raving mad !” 

“ I fear that I should be unable to detect the moment of 
transition,” said Philip, calmly persevering. 

He stopped abruptly to examine something. 

“ Ah ! what’s this glittering bauble in your hair? This must 
come out, and at once.” 

“Don’t touch it!” cried Viola, and her hand was on the 
hilt of the knife almost at the some instant that Philip’s 
words were uttered. She drew it out and held it behind her 
defiantly. 

“ Is the toy so precious? A dangerous plaything, and most 
unsuitable in the hands of a refractoiy pupil undergoing 
much needed instruction in the nature ana duties of wifehood. 
Come, now, give it up quietly ; it will be far better for you in 
the end. We must have no violence, if we can possibly avoid 
it; that sort of thing is really very ‘bad form,’ and you know 
my horror of ‘ bad form.’ ” 

He held out his hand for the weapon. • 

“ Don’t oblige me to take it from you by force. You must 
try to realize the situation. If I could make you understand 
that somehow or another, by fair means or by foul, I intend 
to reduce you to submission, and thsA immediately ^ you would 
save yourself a lot of fruitless trouble. Your conduct 
throughout our married life has been intolerable, and we 
must have an end of it. Women can’t be reasoned with; 
they can only be governed autocratical Iv. You have con- 
firmed my opinion on that subject. Sheer will-force is the 
only argument that goes home to them. Now, then, we under- 


DARKNESS. 


295 


stand each other. Give me that offensive weapon and come 
with me; I have been long enough in this musty and ex- 
tremely depressing old room; the associations are gruesome; 
one can sniff Death in the very air. Come with me. Let’s 
have no more nonsense to-night. I have no doubt but that 
by this time our friend has become tired of waiting, and has 
returned wiser and sadder to his fireside— perhaps also rather 
damper. But his mother, we all know, is thoughtful about 
gruel and a hot bath in such cases, so there is really no cause 
for compunction on your part. You did your best; he could 
not ask more. Come with me.” 

“I will not come with you; I will not pass another night 
under your roof, though I die for it !” said Viola. 

“And how are you going to avoid it, my dear?” asked 
Philip. “The woman doesn’t know when she is beaten! 
What power on earth can protect you now against me? You 
yourself have locked the door of the wing communicating 
with the other part of the house, and cut yourself off from 
chance interposition. Besides, who would help a wife against 
her husband?” 

She kept her eyes fixed upon him, watching every move- 
ment, desperate and defiant. He moved close up to her to 
take possession of the knife and to lead her away. 

“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, or — 1” The rest of the 
sentence was lost in a sound of loathing and horror, for Philip 
had disobeyed her. Advancing till she was driven against tVie 
corner of the window and there was no possible loop hole of 
escape, he took her in his arms deliberately. 

‘ ‘ Don’t make a fool of yourself, ” he said. ‘ ‘ Do what you are 
told. Give me that weapon at once and come.” 

His touch, constraining, insolent as it was, forcing her in 
spite of all her resistance towards the door, excited her to very 
madness. His lips touched her cheek ; his hand was seeking 
hers to seize the knife, when in an instant— a horrible instant 
of blinding passion— the steel has fiashed through the air with a 
force born of the wildest fury— there was a cry, a curse, a groan, 
a backward stagger, and Philip lay at his wife’s feet mortally 
wounded. For a second — but ah! how interminable was that 
second 1 — there was silence within that chamber of Death. The 
everlasting boom of the waves, with their moan and lamenta- 
tion, sounded loudly outside— the distant chant of many voices 
mourning. 

“ May you be damned 1” 

Philip gave a groan and tried to raise himself on his arm, 
but fell back helpless. The blood was fiowing fast from the 
wound. His eyes were blazing v/ith fury and hatred inde- 
scribable. He gathered his forces for a dying curse. 

“ May the gallows spare you for a more hideous fate: may 
you suffer all that your soul most abhorrs; may you be the 
tool and chattel and plaything of men ; may they drag you to 
the lowest depths of humiliation ; may indignity be heaped on 


296 


THE WIHG OF AZRAEL. 


indignity; may you be outcast, homeless, praying for death; 
may the pride of your soul be^\ithered and utterly roof ed 
out; may you die in shame and miseiy; m a}' your soul be 
damned for everlasting— ??i«rc?eress /” 

His voice gave way, and he sank back panting. 

Almost at the same iiistant a man’s step was heard in the 
passage outside. With a look of fury the woonded man 
struggled up for the last time, tried to utter some words — 
evidently of unspeakable passion — and fell back never to stir 
again. 

The footsteps stopped outside the door, which was thrown 
0])en, and Harry Lancaster entered the rcom. 

He paused abruptly^, and there was a moment of dead 
silence. Viola was standing with head held high, the 
knife still in her hand, and in her eyes a look that made the 
very heart stop beating. At her feet lay a human form, per- 
fectly still, the white face upturned, one hand with the thumb 
pressed inward, conspicuous in the moonlight, which was trac- 
ms the outline of the lozenge panes delicately upon the 
polished floor. Beside the prostrate figure was something 
glistening, something 

“ Good God ! what is it ? What have you done ?” 

“ Come and see,” she answered, with a wild sort of exulta- 
tion. She went to him, put her arm in his, and drew him 
eagei'ly forward. It was a ghastly moment for him ! 

“You see I have killed him with this knife;” she held it 
aloft and then threw it rn the floor. 

“Oh, you are mad!” he exclaimed. “ Fow have not done 
this! Let me look at you.” 

He turned her face m the full moonlight, and scanned the 
haggard features with an awful dread in his heart — yet al- 
most a hope, so desperate was the crisis. 

“Are you mad ? Oh! tell me, are you mad, you poor tor- 
tured child ?” he groaned. 

“Mad? Oh no! I meant to do it. I knew it would kill 
him. I would do it again— I would do it again !” she cried in 
wild excitement. “ I leave a life behind me so loathsome, so 
intolerable— Yes,” she broke off fiercely, “I would do it 
again.” 

“Oh, spare yourself— have mercy on yourself!” 

“ But it is true; it is the only thing that I can bear to let 
my thoughts rest upon, the only spot in my black life that is 
not black to me.” 

She held out her right hand and looked at it in the moon- 
light. 

“Call me guilty: it is sweet to me— sweet and clean and 
wholesome! I am guilty ; I have murdered him.” She drew 
an ecstatic breath. 

Harry looked at her aghast. Say what she might, she was 
mad. 

“ His blood seems to wash away some of the blackness, the 


DARKNESS. 


297 


hideousness of the past— if that could be— hut oh, no, no !”— 
(she thrust out her hands, shrinking back) — “nothing can do 
that ; there are no words for it ;— the horror is in mj lieai t, 
and it burns there; it burns— it will never cease burning— 
never, never !” 

She flung her arms over her head, and then sank cowering 
to the floor, leaning against the wall beneath the window, and 
always shrinking, shrinking, as if in a helpless effort to escape 
from herself. Harry gave a gesture of despair. The horror 
of the situation became more and more appalling the longer 
he thought of it. What was to be done ? Viola’s guilt must 
be discovered with daybreak, and meanwhile where was she 
to go ? what was she to do ? The blood-stained knife lay at 
his feet: his own th rice-accursed gift I He picked it up and 
flung it out of the window, whence it flew in a long curving 
line, quivering with the intense force of the impulse, away 
over the cliff -side and down down to the greedy weaves below. 

“Will you come with me instantly ?” he said. “ There is 
no time to lose, and I must save jmu.” 

“Save me ?— save me 

For an instant — a horrible instant— a flicker of repulsion 
passed across his face ! The scene, the circumstance, the 
ghastliness of the doom, seemed to have overwhelmed him. 

Suddenly, as if she had been struck, Viola shrank away 
with a half-articulate cry which rang echoing through the 
room and made the very heart stop beating, and a sickening 
chill run through the frame from head to foot. It w^as the 
cry of a spirit hurled from its last refuge, cut off from human 
pity and fellowship, cast out from the last sanctuary of 
human love. 

With that momentary flash of repulsion and horror, a 
fathomless abyss seemed to open its jaws, black as the grave, 
but infinitely deeper than that resting-place of the weary who 
have lived and died uncursed. For these lay waiting a haven 
quiet and reposeful ; but for her whose every breath had been 
cursed, who was stained and tainted through and through 
with shame and crime— for her was only a bottomless grave 
where she would fall and fall, weighted with her crime and 
her curse, through the darkness for ever and ever ! 

The words of i^assionate entreaty which Harry was now 
pouring out seemed to strike on deaf ears. The conviction 
tliat the curse was to be fulfilled had already taken root, and 
it was fast becoming immovable. 

“Viola, listen to me,” cried Harry, grasping her hand; 
“ rouse yourself and try to understand. Don’t you realise 
that we must go away from here ? I have just been explain- 
ing — only you did not seem to hear what I said— that we can 
put off in Caleb’s boat, which lies about two miles on the 
farther side of the headland. The cliff is supposed to be in- 
accessible in that part, and so it was till a few days ago, when 
Caleb —but I will tell you about that afterwards; I want you 


298 


THE WING OF AZRAEE 


to come away now, without more loss of time. Viola, Viola, 
do you hear me? I must save you.” 

“ But I can’t be saved,” she said calmly, “don’t you see ? 

I am lost and cast out for ever ; his curse is upon me ; the 
hand of Fate is upon me. What earthly thing can save me ?” 

“ Love can save you,” he said. 

“Love !— for me! Oh ! you are speaking falsely; you are 
playing with me. I am not alive any longer. I have nothing 
to do any longer with human feelings and passions: I am 
dead. It is ghastly work, playing with a dead woman !” 

“ O Viola, how can you torture me like this ?” 

“What do you mean ? You shrink from me yourself. I 
saw the look in your eyes, and I know what has happened.” 

“You are horribly deceiving yourself; but I have no time 
now to try to convince you— don’t you understand that we 
must go?” he repeated hoarsely, “and that I would die for 
you ?” 

She gave a heart broken cry, pressing his hand hard and 
close to her lips. Then she thrust it aside and turned away. 

He darted after her. 

“I must go alone,” she said, without looking at him. 

“You are quite mad ! Where will you go to ? What will 
you do ? I must, I will go with you.” 

She shook her head. “That cannot be,” she said. “You 
v/ould see it yourself to-morrow. You think me mad, but I 
understand better than you do how things are. We stand 
facing one another to-night; but there is a deep gulf between 
us, and it will widen and widen, so that your voice cannot 
roach me— even now I hear it as a whisper ; you will be cut 
off from me utterly and forever. It is quite just and it is un- 
alterable. We must bid one another farewell.” She moved 
away, covering her face as she passed the motionless figure on 
the floor. 

Harry let her close the door behind her ; but after waiting 
for a few seconds, to avoid her opposition, he followed her. 

She had gone out by the side-door on to the terrace, and 
was hurrying, in the glimpses of the moon, along the narrow 
]iathway that ran in and out by the winding cliffside, and 
finally up to the distant headland and the ridge or hill on the 
highest point of the downs which marked from here the west- 
ern horizon. 

Though she moved swiftly, he overtook her almost at once. 
Hearing his step, she looked back and waved him peremp- 
torily away. But he disobeyed her. “You must not come 
with me ; indeed you must not. Do not let your life entangle 
itself further with mine. I implore— I entreat you to go 
back. Let me think, hope, believe that you are not involved 
in this fate and this curse.” 

“Viola, you don’t know what love means. You don’t un- 
derstand that it can save and atone and protect from the 
direst curse that ever fell on human soul. In this black hour 


UAUKNmS. 


209 


— wliich in truth I have brought upon you -am I to desert 
you? Can you ask it ? It was all my fault, and you must 
let me save you.” 

“ You would do this out of pity,” said Violr, ‘‘ out of self- 
accusation; you would ruin yourself to atone for all the love 
that you have showered upon me, all the risks that you have 
run for me, all the opportunities that you have sacrificed for 
me. O Harry! do you not see that my one remaining hope 
and desire is to turn away from you the shadow of this 
doom ?” 

“But, my darling, we can turn away the shadow together. 
Whatever you think you ought to do in expiation, I will try 
and help you to do.” 

‘ ‘ Ah ! but if you were with me I could not expiate my crime ; 
I should live enjoying the fruits of it — no, no, nothing can 
undo, nothing, nothing— and if we had eternity to work in! 
Go back to your own life; we are parted now; no power can 
prevent it. My punishment is sure, whether it come from 
man or from God. Love itself cannot help me now: T am 
beyond salvation. lam a lost soul, and every effort at 
rescue only makes my punishment the harder. Your love, 
in spite of all, has been the best and sweetest thing in my 
life. Don’t you see how it will be its crowning misery, 
if you force me to drag you down with me— if I have to think 
of myself to the last as your evil genius, who from beginning 
to end has brought you sorrow and pain and misfortune ? I 
have no faith and no hope; if ever a soul was lost, mine is 
that soul. Something within me seems to have frozen ; I don’t 
hope— I don’t fear— and I don’t repent.’’ There was a strange 
light in her eyes as she recalled the terrible scene in the death- 
chamber. Repentance seemed to be as far from her thoughts 
as hope itself. 

“ Whatever happens, I must [come with you,” said Harry 
dogged l3^ 

“You might just as well take some creature out of her 
grave,” said Viola. “ I am dead; I am quite dead. The only 
thing that makes me alive again— through sheer anguish — is 
the terror that you wiU not leave me, that I shall yet bring 
some crowning misery upon you. If you have any pity for 
me, let me go !” 

“But what will you do ? Where will you take refuge ?” 

“No matter, no matter; only let me go !” and she moved 
on, signing to him not to follow. 

Harry stood grief-stricken and desperate. His face was 
drawn and haggard almost beyond recognition. It was all 
his fault, all his fault ! What in Heaven’s name ought he 
to do ? Should he let her go, and return to take the punish- 
ment of her deed upon himself? If he did that, she would 
come back and give herself up ; if he did not 

He saw her hastening away from him towards the distant 
headland, across the stretches of the downs, and his heart 


800 


THE WING OF A7AiA EIj. 


leapt up in wild rebellion against her decree of banishment. 
It was more than man could endure. He would not endure it. 

Swiftly as she was moving, he soon gained upon her, the 
sound of the sea and rising wind preventing her from hearing 
him until he stood before her and uttered her name. Then 
she gave a miserable cry and stopped abruptly. 

“ Viola, your command is unbearable. I cannot leave you. 
It is not pity, it is not remorse that moves me; it is love- 
sheer desperate undying love. I will share your fate, what- 
ever it may be, and glory in it.” 

A quiver passed across her face, as if she were verging 
towards the realms of the living once more. But she shook 
her head. 

“You think only of the moment; you don’t foresee as I 
do.” 

“I do foresee, and I foresee a means of easy escape to-night, 
if only you will be reasonable, if only you will be merciful. 
Beyond that headland, beyond the ridge of the downs, there 
on "the horizon, Caleb’s boat— as I told you — is lying moored 
and ready for our flight. ” 

“ It is of no use ; it is of no use,” said Viola. 

“Itfsof use,” cried Harry, thinking she meant that the 
proposed means of escape were hopeless. “Listen. Sibella 
and Caleb have arranged that the boat shall be Availing for 
us in that little inaccessible beach in order to avoid the risk 
of being seen or our means of flight suspected. Beyond that 
ridge you come abruptly— if you keep near the sea— to the 
Avestern Avail of the promontory, the place Avhere the man 
rode over in the dusk and broke his neck. If‘Ave skirt the 
cliff close by that spot, and don’t mind keeping pretty near 
the edge for another two miles— it is considered dang(^'ous, 
for the cliff is breaking aAvay in places, so Ave shall be abso- 
lutely secure from meeting anybody— if we take this slight 
risk ''"e shall reach the boat in about tAventy minutes, Avhereas 
Ave might take an hour to go round by the safer Avay. I am 
not a bit afraid if you trust yourself absolutely to my guid- 
ance. But this is not all (Viola, you must let me shoAv you 
Avhat our chances are before you reject them). Tavo miles 
along the coast, beyond the headland, Caleb discovered a 
pai’t of the cliff which Avould have offered an easy descent 
had it not been for one steep little bit about midway, which 
Avas unscalable. It struck him that a feAv artificial steps cut 
in the rock Avould make it continuous Avith the slopes above 
and below, where one could scramble doAvn Avithout much 
difficulty. He made those feAv steps (Viola, hear me to the 
end), and now Ave can descend by this Avay to the beach and 
put off to sea. Do you see hoAv many advantages that gives 
us ? Nobody but ourselves, Caleb and Sibella knoAv of the 
possibility of getting to that beach from inland; the cliff is 
thought unscalable for miles in that direction; our mear.s of 
escape, therefore, will never be suspected until some chance 


DAUKNESS. 


SOI 


adventurer discovers Caleb’s steps. The course that we shall 
take will be quite different from any that their calculations 
could lead them to expect. Long: before morning we shall be 
out of sight, and we shall have landed on French shores be- 
fore they think of pursuing us by sea. Sibella and I had 
formed careful plans for our guidance after we reached the 
opposite coast (you know that she was to help us and stand 
by us wherever we went), and these— but I must tell you 
about them afterwards— I have no doubt whatever that I 
could save you, if you would only trust yourself to me and 
do as I ask you. Every moment is of value; I do not feel 
safe till I have left the land behind me. (jome, darling, 
come.” 

He put his arms round her to draw her away, but she re- 
sisted him. 

“Viola, Viola, for my sake come.” His voice shook with 
the passion of his pleading. “Remember how madly I love 
you I” His lips were white and trembling, his eyes filled witli 
teal's. 

She held her breath, wrestling with the might of the tempta- 
tion to yield to his pleading, to seek rest and refuge in the 
eager arms encircling her, to lay her head on his breast and 
drift back to life once more, love-bestowed and tended. After 
the long conflict and self-suppression, after the gloom and grief 
and pain of her life, the thought of such surrender and pro- 
tection was like heaven! The longing became so intense that 
she had to clench her hands and stand still and rigid in order 
to resist it. She must not, she would not yield to it; she 
m ist not, she would not inflict upon him this deadly injury. 
Jliirderess as she was, she had not the baseness to accept a 
joy, to seek to avert a punishment at his expense. There 
was no room for self-deception; it was as clear as noonday. 
It must not be. If she had to face the torture of woundmg 
liim now, when she must bid him farewell for ever, still the 
torture must be faced— even his torture, in order that he 
might be saved. 

Harry vvas still desperately pleading, Viola with her hands 
clasped tightly, her eyes fixed on the clouds, resisting, re- 
fusing, entreating hiin to leave her. 

“Don’t look away from me like that, Viola!” he cried 
wildly. “What have I done that you should treat me so? 
It will drive me mad !” 

He fell at her knees sobbing. She steeled herself for the 
terrible moment. 

“Good-bye! good-bye!” 

In a moment she had darted from him, swift as an arrow. 
He sprang up and followed her along the cliff -side pathwa3\ 
She was running with desperate haste, on and on towards the 
distant promontory. He was determined to keep her in sight 
whatever befell, though he tlrnight it wise to seem to yield 
to her wish in the meantim ). The moon was nob yet high in 


302 


THE WINO OF AZllAEL. 


the heavens, and the undulations and hollows of the downs 
cast great stretches of shadow, made yet more sombre by the 
groups of gorse-bushes, and here and there, farther inland 
where the slopes were more sheltered, by patches of wood and 
little wind-beaten copses. 

What did Viola mean to do? Which direction would she 
choose? At present she was keeping along the edge of the 
cliff where the moonlight fell, as if bound for the distant 
ridge on the headland. She was in sight, and so far safe. 
But presently she must come to one of the great patches of 
shadow, and then a serious danger threatened. The shadows 
ran into one another, some spreading inland, some towards 
the ridge, some back to the castle and the country about Up- 
ton. 

When once she left the moonlit spaces, Harry would lose 
sight and knowledge of her unless he kept close beside her at 
the moment of her disappearing into the darkness. That 
peril must be avoided at all hazards. 

His heart stood still at the thought of what might happen 
if he let her out of his sight. If she did not fling herself over 
the cliff, she might wand^er about the downs till morning, to 
be then hunted as a murderess and brought back for the hid- 
eous ordeal. She had no thought of evasion or self-protec- 
tion. 

He quickened his pjace, till he was close enough to the fugi- 
tive to overtake her if necessary in a few seconds. 

She seemed to become aware of his presence, for she turned 
and waved him frantically away. At a short distance ahqad 
of them, crossing their path, lay the broad mass of shadow 
which Harry regarded with so much dread. He dared not 
obey her gesture ; the risk was too great. When he came up 
to her she looked absolutely distraught. 

“Now, Viola, I am coming with you,” he said firmly; 
shall not keep me back. Realise that it is useless to 
attempt it. ” 

In an instant she had gone up close to the cliff-side. 

“ If you advance a step beyond where you now stand,” she 
said, “ I throw myself over.” 

He stopped appalled. 

They stood facing one another, between them the imagi- 
nary line upon the grass, stronger to oppose him, as Hai ry 
bitterly realised, than any fortress-wall. She stood on the 
very verge of the precipice, well out of his reach. His heart 
stood still for fear. 

“ Viola, you are pitiless as death!” 

He heard her give a low sob as she moved swiftly away, 
keeping always close to the cliff. 

His voice called despairingly after her, ‘‘ Viola, have mercy 
on me — let me come !” 

“ I cannot, I cannot— it is because I love you.” 

^ A must come!” he cried wildly. 


DAliKNESS. 


so:] 

She pointed silently over the cliff without looking back. 
In another second she had plunged into the shadow, and he 
could see her no more. 

The blackness did not fall upon the edge of the cliff, and 
therefore Harry knew that she had left the perilous verge, 
and that he might pursue her. But which way had she gone ? 
What did she intend to do? She seemed to be possessed with 
a feverish haste to cut herself adrift, to escape from the scene 
of so much misery. Hope sank within him as he ran on in 
desperate, clueless pursuit. The memory of her face and of 
her deed, her immovable firmness in spite of all his pleading, 
killed every vestige of it in his heart. It was almost worse 
than if she were mad. She was not mad— he had convinced 
himself of that ; on the contrary, she was miserably sane, 
clear in her forecasts, in her grasp of the situation, in the 
certainty which she felt of hastening punishment. The no- 
tion of escape seemed to have no hold upon her ; she would 
probably not deny her guilt if accused. Her one desire or 
necessity was to cut herself off from her fellow -creatures, 
even from those who would face all risks for her. She seemed 
to be thirsting for punishment, yet unrepentant. 

Knowing that she had left the cliff’s edge, Harry followed 
as swiftly as he could one band of shadow after another, 
faintly hoping to find the right one before Viola had time to 
evade him. But he could discover no traces of her. The 
shadows led away into the trackless downs and far into the 
country; it seemed hopeless to follow them at haphazard. 
All was dead and bleak and silent. 

Surely she could not have gone back towards the castle or 
the village ! That was the only shadowed route still unex- 
plored. In the inland direction the quest seemed absolutely 
futile. There were belts of trees and hedgerows, and thick 
copses offering shelter,— besides that of the darkness,— for a 
dozen fugitives. 

Harry went hopelessly on, looking on every side, listening 
and watching intently. The breaking of a twig, the stirring 
of a leaf, made his heart beat feverishly. 

Time passed, and he saw no living creature, except occa- 
sionally a bird startled from its rest; heard no sound but the 
movement of the tree-tops and the never-ending murmur of 
the sea. 

More than an hour had gone by in this heart-wearing 
search, and all in vain. Once, had he but known it, he passed 
quite close to Viola as she lay hiding in the outskirts of a large 
wood, well out of sight among the thick undergrowth. She 
had heard her pursuer’s footsteps along the road, and crouched 
down till he should pass by. She heard him come up, look 
this side and that, pause and listen intently. She thought 
that he must hear the wild beating of her heart. She clenched 
her hands to prevent herself from crying out to him. Then she 
heard the footsteps pass on, and a voice through the tree, 


304 


THE WING OF AZRAEL. 


came floating back to her in heart-broken entreaty, calling 
her name. 

Her plan had succeeded admirably — absolutely; but oli, 
how mournful was the victory ! 

The sound of the footsteps, pausing ot intervals and then 
going on again, was dying away now in the distance. S!ie 
could just hear herself being called by the beloved voice for 
the last time. 

“Viola, Viola!” 

Then only the winds could be heard lamenting, and the 
trees whispering in sheltered tumult. 

Viola flung herself on the carpet of dead leaves and broke 
into a passion of sobbing. The paroxysm, long and terrible, 
passed over at length, and left her lying still and exhausted 
at the foot of the old beech -tree where she had fallen. The 
wind, passing on its way through the wood, mourned over 
her. She rose at last, and pushed her way out. With one 
long, last look in the direction which Harry had taken, she 
turned again seawards, retracing her steps and hurrying back 
to the shelterless downs. She directed her steps— sometimes 
walking very quickly, sometimes breaking into a nm — 
towards the headland and the ridge on the western horizon. 
A great sweep of moonlit down led up to it. Here were no 
shadows, for the land rose in a long series of gentle undula- 
tions to the height. 

Across this wide space Viola was hastening when Harry, 
hopeless with the failure of his inland quest, returned once 
more to seek her by the sea. He knew her love for it, and 
the fascination of its voice, and he thought that in this des- 
perate hour it would perhaps lure her back to the cliff-side 
and the shore. 

His conjecture proved true. When he descried the dim 
figure in the distance hurrying towards the headland,. he gave 
a wild cry and raced madly after her, dazed with new lio])e 
and frantic with fear. Over the brow of that hill lay the 
western wall of the promontory, sheer and pitiless; would she 
remember and avoid it? Could he overtake and shield her 
from the peril? One thought brought relief to him: though 
the fatal cliff lay beyond the ridge, the boat lay beyond it also, 
rnd Viola knew of it. It seemed not improbable,— it was 
e ven likely that she would set herself adrift upon the watei-s, 
giving herself to the sea, and accepting without question its 
final inexorable verdict. Harry raced on. 

A lost spiiit indeed she looked, moving, unconscious of pur- 
suit, across those bleak spaces, swiftly as if the west wind 
were driving her before it in scorn. Harry’s speed was mar- 
vrllous; the ground seemed to devour itself beneath his foot. 
And as he ran the stem, terrible words which Sibella had so 
often quoted were rhythmically ringing, clear and hard as a 
peal of bells, in his memory: “'But the goat on which the lot 
for Azazel fell shall be presented alive before Jehovah, to 


DARKNESS. 


305 


make atonement with him, to let him go to Azazel in the wil- 
derness.” Reaching the brow of the hill, the figure turned to 
look for the last time on the scene which held so many mem- 
ories. 

The dark outline was revealed against the sky, motionless, 
alone. 

What feelings were in her heart as her eyes rested upon 
that stretch of shadowed, wind-haunted country? 

Tile old familiar moan came up on the gale from the sea. 
How did it strike upon her ear to-night? Did she remember 
that by to-morrow her name would be in everybody’s mouth, 
scorned and execrated ? Did she realise that the hand of every 
man— except one— would be against her; that she was home- 
less, well-nigh friendless, with a hideous ordeal threatening, 
and a terrible death? 

“ What have I done? Oh ! what have I done?” 

The last flicker of hope died out; not a spark remained; 
there was no possible redemption. Harry saw that she was 
indeed doomed by fate, by circumstance, by temperament; 
that she was beyond the reach of salvation, even as she had 
said. Love itself stretched out faithful arms in vain. She 
could not even repent. 

In the sky a phalanx of black clouds had been marching up 
stealthily from the west, so thick and heavy that the moon- 
light was threatened with extinction. Becoming suddenly 
aware of this danger, Harry darted forward in a panic. If 
the moon were covered before he saw which direction Viola 
had taken he would lose her again, and this time assuredly 
he would lose her for ever. He had to race the clouds. But 
he had no chance against them : he saw that clearly, with an 
awful pang of renewed despair, as he nevertheless put forth 
his utmost strength, and tore and strained, and struggled 
madly up the hill. The terrible effort seemed to rend him ; he 
could not breathe; he was unable even to gasp; he felt rigid, 
paralysed. But he struggled on as one possessed. In a 
miraculously short time he had covered half of that inexor- 
able space, but it was not within the power of man to reach 
the summit in the time. The strain was too much for liim ; 
he faltered, staggered, and half fell against the hillside ; trying 
to drag himself up even then with his hands, his head spin- 
ning, a rush of blood filling his mouth. At that instant the 
solitary figure, with one last look over the moonlit country 
and the sea, with one glance upwards at the sky, passed over 
the brow of the hill and out of sight, while a second later the 
sombre procession swept over Uie face of the moon and 
plunged the whole landscape in darkness. 

The scene was obliterated: darkness everywhere; over the 
interminable uplands, in their profound solitude, in the 
shrouded heavens, and over the sea : pitch-black, ray less, im- 
penetrable darkness. 


THE END. 




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